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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


I 


LILLIAN  AND  OTHEE  POEMS" 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED. 


KOW   FIRST   COLLECTED. 


REDFIELD, 

110  &  112  NASSAU-STEEET,  NEW  YOEK. 
1854:. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  iu  the  Year  One  Thousand 
Eight  Hundred  and  Fifty-two,  by  J.  S.  EEDFIELD,  in  the  Clerk's 
Office  of  the  District  vjourt  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  Yoric. 


\      1 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Biographical  Introduction v 

Lillian 13 

The  Bridal  of  Belmont 31 

The  Red  Fisherman 48 

The  Legend  of  the  Haunted  Tree 57 

The  Troubadour 71 

The  Legend  of  the  Teufel-Haus 121 

Every-Day  Characters  : 

L— The  Vicar 131 

IL— Quince 135 

in. — The  Belle  of  the  Ball 139 

A  Fragment  of  a  Ballad 143 

The  Covenanter's  Lament  for  Bothwell  Brigg 150 

Hope  and  Love 153 

Private  Theatricals 156 

Alexander  and  Diogenes 159 

Utopia 163 

Palinodia 166 

School  and  School-Fellows 170 

To  A  Lady 173 

Confessions 178 

A  Letter  of  Advice 183 

Our  Ball 185 

My  Partner 189 

Letter  from  Miss  Amelia  Jank  Mortimer 193 


?75448 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Time's  Changes 198 

Good  Night 201 

Josephine 203 

Marston  Moor 20G 

Stanzas 210 

Twenty-eight  AND  Twenty-nine 212 

How  SHALL  I  Woo  .Her  1. 21G 

Stanzas 218 

The  Confession  of  Don  Carlos 221 

To  Julia 225 

Lines  to  Florence 232 

Stanzas 235 

Cassandra 237 

Sonnet  to  Ada 240 

My  Little  Cousins 241 

Aeminius 243 

Verses  on  Seeing  the  Speaker  Asleep 246 

I  Remember  how  my  Childhood  Fleeted 248 

Memory 249 

Tell  Him  I  Love  Him  Yet 251 

The  Race 253 

Charades  : 

Epitaph  on  the  late  King  of  the  Sandwich  Islands.  259 

Chant  of  the  Brazen  Head 264 

Charades  : 

I. — There  w^as  a  time  young  Roland  thought.  2G8 
IL — Sir  Harry  was  famed 270 

in. — Morning  is  Beaming 271 

IV. — My  First  was  dark  o'er  Earth  and  Air.  272 
V. — Come  from  my  First,  ay,  come 272 

VI. — Sir  Hilary  charged  at  Agincourt 273 

VII. — He  talked  of  Daggers  and  of  Darts 274 

VIII. — My  First  came  forth  in  Booted  State 275 

IX. — I  graced  Don  Pedro's  revelry 276 


CONTENTS.  V 

X, — Alas!  for  that  forgotten  day 277 

XI. — On  the  casement  frame  the  wind  beat  high  278 

XII. — The  canvas  rattled  on  the  mast 279 

XIII. — Uncouth  was  I  of  face  and  form 280 

XIV. — Lord  Ronald  by  the  rich  torchlight 281 

XV, — One  day  my  First  young  Cupid  made 283 

XVI. — The  Indian  Lover  burst 284 

XVII. — When  Ralph  by  holy  hands  was  tied 285 

XVIII. — A  Templar  kneel'd  at  a  Friar's  knee 286 

XIX. — Row  on,  row  on! — The  First  may  light..  287 

austalasia - 289 

Athens 300 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 


WiNTHROP  Mackworth  Praed  was  born  in  1802,  in 
London,  where  his  parents  were  connected  with  a  great 
banking  house  whicli  still  remains  in  the  family.  At  a 
very  early  age  he  was  placed  at  Eton,  where  Henry 
Nelson  Coleridge,  John  Moultrie  and  others  who  have 
since  been  distinguished  in  literature  or  in  political  af- 
fairs were  his  schoolfellows.  With  Moultrie  he  set  up 
The  Etonian,  one  of  the  cleverest  and  most  spirited 
undergraduate  magazmes  ever  sent  from  a  college.  To 
this  he  was  the  largest  contributor,  and  its  success  was 
so  great  that  it  went  through  four  editions,  and  estab- 
lished for  him  a  reputation  for  extraordinary  precocious 
talent.  From  Eton  he  went  to  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, where  he  carried  away  an  unprecedented  number 
of  prizes  for  Greek  and  Latin  odes  and  epigrams  and 
English  poems.  On  leaving  the  university  he  settled 
in  London,  and  soon  after  became  associated  with  T.  B. 
Macaulay,  Hookham  Frere,  and  others,  in  the  conduct 
of  Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine,  of  which  his  articles 
were  the  life  and  main  attraction.  This  miscellany  be- 
ing discontinued,  he  wrote  a  large  number  of  playful 
lyrics  for  the  New  Monthly  Magazine  and  the  illustrated 
annuals,  and  pungent  political  satires  for  the  journals. 

In  youth  he  shared  the  liberalism  of  Southey,  but  like 
the  laureate  he  became  conservative  while  advancing 
into  manhood.    The  abilities  he  displayed  in  public  con- 


VI  BIOGRAPHICAL     IKTRODUCTION. 

troversy  induced  his  election  to  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  he  was  a  member  for  Aylesbury,  St.  Germains  and 
Yarmouth,  in  three  successive  Parliaments.  Though  a 
love  of  ease,  and  social  propensities,  prevented  the  best 
cultivation  of  his  powers,  and  the  quick  seizure  of  each 
opportunity,  necessary  to  eminence  in  politics,  he  did 
enough  to  justify  the  earnest  anticipations  of  his  friends, 
and  to  win  for  himself  the  title  of  a  "rising  man."  He 
held  the  place  of  Secretary  of  the  Board  of  Control,  from 
December  in  1834  to  April  in  1835,  and  other  offices,  in 
higher  series,  promised  to  reward  his  continuance  in 
public  life.  At  this  period  his  early  friend'  Moultrie,  who 
had  entered  the  ministry  of  the  Established  Church,  ad- 
dressed him  in  the  following  sonnets  : 


In'  youtli  and  early  manliood  tliou  and  I 

Throujrli  this  world's  path  walked  blithely  side  by  sido, 

Unlike,  and  yet  by  kindred  aims  allied, 

Both  courting  one  coy  mistress — Poesy. 

Those  days  are  over,  and  our  paths  now  lie 

Apart,  dissevered  by  a  space  as  wide 

As  the  blank  realms  wiich  heaven  and  earth  divide, 

And  widen+ng  day  by  day  continually. 

Each  hath  forsaken  tlie  sweet  Muses'  shrine 

For  cares  more  serious  ;  thou  for  wordy  strife 

And  senatorial  toils, — how  unlike  mine  ! 

Who  lead  the  country  pastor's  humble  life, 

Sweetening  its  cares  with  joys  denied  to  thine, 

Fair  children  and  a  loved  aud  loving  wife. 


So  sang  I  all  unwitting  of  the  prize, 
Which  thou  meanwhile  hadst  won  and  wearest  now, 
The  fairest  garland  that  enwreathes  thy  brow. 
Crowned  though  it  be  for  youth's  rich  phantasies 
And  manhood's  virtues,  by  the  good  and  wise. 
With  well-earned  laurel.     I  have  witnessed  how 
Thy  whole  heart  honors  the  blest  nuptial  vow  ; 
How  well  become  thee  this  world's  tenderest  ties  ; 
And  gladlier  now  doth  my  mind's  eye  repose 
On  thy  bright  liome, — thy  breathing-times  of  rest 
From  public  turmoil, — on  the  love  that  glows 
In  the  fond  father's  and  the  husband's  breast. 
Than  on  thy  well-waged  strifes  with  factious  foes 
Or  lettered  triumphs,  e'en  by  them  confessed. 


BIOGRAPHICAL     INTRODUCTION.  Vll 

nr. 

In  youth's  impetuous  days  thy  heart  was  warm. 

Thy  tono^ue  unchecked,  "thy  spirit  bold  and  high, 
"With  sucli  blind  zeal  for  mis -called  liberty, 
That  friend  and  foe  looked  on  thee  with  alarm. 
But  since  maturer  years  dispelled  the  charm 
And  weaned  thee  from  thy  first  idolatry, 
,         "With  what  foul  gibes  doth  faction's  sjii'teful  fry. 
Venting  its  rage  around  thee,  shriek  and  swarm : 
Recreant  or  renegade,  the  mildest  name 
With  which  they  greet  thee  ;  but  thy  heart  meanwhile 
Is  pure  beyond  the  reach  of  venal  blame. 
Free,  firm,  unstained  by  selfishness  or  guile, 
Too  noble  for  even  party  to  defile  : 
If  thou  art  faithless,  let  me  be  the  same. 

In  the  autumn  of  1838  the  health  of  the  young  com- 
moner began  to  decline,  and  he  gave  up  his  employments 
and  his  ambitions,  to  retire  into  his  home  and  prepare 
for  death ;  and  on  the  fifteenth  of  July,  1839,  he  died,  in 
the  thirty -seventh  year  of  his  age. 

The  writer  of  this  preface,  while  a  boy,  was  accus- 
tomed to  read  with  delight  the  pieces  of  Praed  as  they 
appeared  in  our  periodicals,  and  when  news  came  of  the 
poet's  death,  he  directed  the  importation  of  a  copy  of 
his  works,  and  was  surprised  with  the  information  that 
they  had  never  been  collected ;  but  the  bookseller  who 
had  ordered  them  from  London — Mr.  Langley,  whose 
store  was  then  in  the  Astor  House — readily  undertook 
the  publication  of  as  many  of  his  compositions  as  were 
accessible  in  old  souvenirs  and  magazines,  and  the  result 
was  the  only  volume  of  them  hitherto  printed — a  volume 
which  now  has  become  rare,  so  that  Miss  Mitford  states, 
in  the  recently  published  Reminiscences  of  her  Life,  that 
she  procured  it  with  considerable  difficulty. 

The  merits  of  Praed  are  peculiar  and  very  great.  As 
a  writer  of  vers  de  societe  he  is  without  an  equal  among 
English  authors.  Nothing  can  be  more  graceful,  natu- 
ral, and  agreeable,  than  his  Every  Day  Characters ;    wo 


via  BIOaRAPHICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

find  nowhere  a  more  brilliant  play  of  fancy  than  in  Lil- 
lian and  his  other  arabesque  stories,  in  which  the  most 
curious  rural  superstitions  are  embroidered  so  deftly  on 
the  feelings  of  the  drawing  room ;  and  perhaps  there  is 
no  other  example  in  which  a  humor  so  quiet,  airy  and 
delicious,  is  so  happily  interblent  with  moving  tender- 
ness, as  in  Josephine,  and  many  of  his  other  apparently 
careless  yet  really  most  exquisitely  finished  productions. 
This  humorous  melancholy,  this  gayety,  with  undertones 
of  sadness,  is  perhaps  our  author's  chief  distinction. 

The  present  edition  of  these  poems  is  much  more  full  than 
any  hitherto  published,  and  it  may  have  the  effect  of  in- 
ducing some  English  publisher  to  give  us  a  complete 
collection  of  the  works  of  an  author  whose  carelessness 
of  his  literary  reputation  should  not  deprive  the  world 
of  one  of  the  most  charming  books  for  which  any  writer 
of  our  time  has  furnished  material. 

B.    W.    G. 

New  York,  April,  1852. 


POEMS  BY  W.  M.  PPiAED. 


LILLIAN.* 


"A  dragon's  tail  is  flayed  to  wana 

A  headless  maiden's  heart."  MUs  ■ 


*Aiid  he's  cleckit  this  great  muckle  bird  out  o'  tiiis  wee  egg  I  he  could  wile  the  very  flounders  out 
u'  the  Frith  !"  Mr.  Saddletree. 


CANTO    I. 

There  was  a  dragon  in  Arthur's  time, 

When  dragons  and  griffins  were  voted  "  prime," 

Of  monstrous  reputation : 
Up  and  down,  and  far  and  wide, 
He  roamed  about  in  his  scaly  pride  ; 
And  ever,  at  morn  and  even-tide, 
He  made  such  rivers  of  blood  to  run 
As  shocked  the  sight  of  the  blushing  sun, 

And  deluged  half  the  nation. 

*  This  poem  appeared  originally  with  the  follo-wiiig  advertisement. 

"  The  reader  is  requested  to  believe  that  the  following  statement  is 
literally  true  ;  because  the  writer  is  well  aware  that  the  circumstances 
under  which  Lillian  was  composed  are  the  only  source  of  its  merits, 
and  the  only  apology  for  its  faults.  At  a  small  party  at  Cambridge, 
some  malicious  belles  endeavored  to  confound  their  sonnetteering 
friends,  by  setting  unintelligible  and  inexplicable  subjects  for  the  exer- 


14  LILLIAK. 

It  was  a  pretty  monster,  too, 

With  a  crimson  head,  and  a  body  blue, 

And  wings  of  a  warm  and  delicate  hue. 

Like  the  glow  of  a  deep  carnation  : 
And  the  terrible  tail  that  lay  behind, 
Reached  out  so  far  as  it  twisted  and  twined, 
That  a  couple  of  dwarfs,  of  wondrous  strength, 
Bore,  when  he  travelled,  the  horrible  length. 

Like  a  Duke's  at  the  coronation. 

His  mouth  had  lost  one  ivory  tooth, 
Or  the  dragon  had  been_.  in  very  sooth. 

No  insignificant  charmer ; 
And  that — alas  !  he  had  ruined  it. 
When  on  new-year's  day,  in  a  hungry  fit. 
He  swallowed  a  tough  and  a  terrible  bit — 
Sir  Lob,  in  his  brazen  armor. 
Swift  and  light  were  his  steps  on  the  ground. 
Strong  and  smooth  was  his  hide  around. 
For  the  weapons  which  the  peasants  flung 
Ever  unfelt  or  unheeded  rung. 


cise  of  their  poetical  talents.    Among  many  others,  the  Thesis  .vas 
given  out  which  is  the  motto  of  Lillian : 

"  A  dragon's  tail  is  flayed  to  wann 
A  headless  maiden's  heart," 

and  the  following  was  an  attempt  to  explain  the  riddle.  The  partiality 
with  which  it  had  heen  honored  in  manuscript,  and  the  frequent  ap- 
plications which  have  heen  made  to  the  author  for  copies,  must  he  his 
excuse  for  having  a  few  impressions  struck  off  for  private  circulation 
among  his  friends.  It  was  ^Titten,  however,  with  the  sole  view  of 
amusing  the  ladies  in  whose  circle  the  idea  originated ;  and  to  them, 
with  all  due  humility  and  devotion,  it  is  inscribed. 
"Teimty  Coli,eoe,  Cambridge,  October  26, 1822." 


LILLIAN.  15 


Arrow,  and  stone,  and  spear, 
As  snow  o'er  Cynthia's  window  flits, 
Or  raillery  of  twenty  wits 

On  a  fool's  unshrinkinsf  ear. 


'a 


In  many  a  battle  the  beast  had  been, 

Many  a  blow  he  had  felt  and  given : 
Sir  Digore  came  with  a  menacing  mien, 

But  he  sent  Sir  Digore  straight  to  Heaven ; 
Stiff  and  stour  were  the  arms  he  wore. 

Huge  the  sword  he  was  wont  to  clasp  ; 
But  the  sword  was  little,  the  armor  brittle. 

Locked  in  the  coil  of  the  dragon's  grasp. 

He  came  on  Sir  Florice  of  Sesseny  Land, 

Pretty  Sir  Florice  from  over  the  sea, 
And  smashed  him  all  as  he  stepped  on  the  sand, 

Cracking  his  head  like  a  nut  from  the  tree. 
No  one  till  now,  had  found,  I  trow, 

Any  thing  good  in  the  scented  youth. 
Who  had  taken  much  pains  to  be  rid  of  his  brains. 

Before  they  were  sought  by  the  dragon's  tooth. 

He  came  on  the  Sheriff  of  Hereford, 

As  he  sat  him  down  to  his  Sunday  dinner ; 
And  the  Sheriff  he  spoke  but  this  brief  word  : 

"  St.  Francis,  be  good  to  a  corpulent  sinner !" 
Fat  was  he,  as  a  Sheriff  might  be. 

From  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  tip  of  his  toe ; 
But  the  Sheriff  was  small,  or  nothing  at  all, 

When  put  in  the  jaws  of  the  dragon  foe. 


16  LILLIAN. 

He  came  on  the  Abbot  of  Avnondale, 

As  he  kneeled  hira  down  to  his  morning  devotion ; 
But  the  dragon  he  shuddered,  and  turned  his  tail 

About,  "  with  a  short  uneasy  motion." 
Iron  and  steel,  for  an  early  meal, 

He  stomached  with  ease,  or  the  Muse  is  a  liar ; 
But  out  of  all  question,  he  failed  in  digestion. 

If  ever  he  ventured  to  swallow  a  friar ! 

Monstrous  brute ! — his  dread  renown 

Made  whispers  and  terrors  in  country  and  town  ; 

Nothing  was  babbled  by  boor  or  knight, 

But  tales  of  his  civic  appetite. 

At  last,  as  after  dinner  he  lay, 

Hid  from  the  heat  of  the  solar  ray. 

By  boughs  that  had  woven  an  arbor  shady. 

He  chanced  to  fall  in  with  the  Headless  Lady. 

Headless  !  alasl  't  was  a  piteous  gil)e  ; 

I'll  drink  Aganippe,  and  then  describe. 

Her  father  had  been  a  stout  yeoman, 
Fond  of  his  jest  and  fond  of  his  can. 

But  never  over-wise ; 
And  once,  when  his  cups  had  been  many  and  ..deep, 
He  met  with  a  dragon  fast  asleep, 

'T  was  a  faery  in  disguise  : 
In  a  dragon's  form  she  had  ridden  the  storm, 

The  realm  of  the  sky  invading ; 
Sir  Grahamc's  ship  was  stout  and  fast. 
But  the  faery  came  on  the  rushing  blast, 


LILLIAN.  17 

And  shivered  the  sails,  and  shivered  the  mast, 
And  down  went  the  gallant  ship  at  last, 

With  all  the  crew  and  lading. 
And  the  fay  laughed  out  to  see  the  rout, 

As  the  last  dim  hope  was  fading  ; 
And  this  she  had  done  in  a  love  of  fun, 

And  a  love  of  masquerading. 
She  lay  that  night  in  a  sunny  vale. 
And  the  yeoman  found  her  sleeping  ; 
Fiercely  he  smote  her  glittering  tail. 
But  oh !  his  courage  began  to  fail, 

When  the  faery  rose  all  weeping. 
"  Thou  hast  lopped,"  she  said,  "  beshrew  thine  hand ! — 
The  fairest  foot  in  faery  land  ! 

"  Thou  hast  an  infant  in  thine  home  ! 
Never  to  her  shall  reason  come, 

For  weeping  or  for  wail. 
Till  she  shall  ride  with  a  fearless  face 

On  a  living  dragon's  scale. 
And  fondly  clasp  to  her  heart's  embrace 

A  living  dragon's  tail," 
The  faery's  form  from  his  shuddering  sight 
Flowed  away  in  a  stream  of  light. 

Disconsolate  that  youth  departed. 

Disconsolate  and  poor ; 
And  wended,  chill  and  broken-hearted. 

To  his  cottage  on  the  moor  ; 


18  LILLIAN. 

Sadly  and  silently  he  knelt 

His  lonely  hearth  beside ; 
Alas  !  how  desolate  he  felt 

As  he  hid  his  face  and  cried. 
The  cradle  where  the  babe  was  laid 

Stood  in  its  own  dear  nook, 
But  long — hov/  long !  he  knelt,  and  prayed, 

And  did  not  dare  to  look. 
He  looked  at  last ;  his  joy  was  there, 
And  slumbering  with  that  placid  air 
Which  only  babes  and  angels  wear. 
Over  the  cradle  he  leaned  his  head ; 
The  cheek  was  warm,  and  the  lip  was  red : 
And  he  felt,  he  felt,  as  he  saw  her  lie, 
A  hope — which  was  a  mockery. 
The  babe  unclosed  her  eye's  pale  lid  : — 
Why  doth  he  start  from  the  sight  it  hid  ? 
He  had  seen  in  the  dim  and  fitful  ray. 
That  the  light  of  the  soul  hath  gone  away ! 
Sigh  nor  prayer  he  uttered  there. 
In  mute  and  motionless  despair. 
But  he  laid  him  down  beside  his  child. 
And  Lillian  saw  him  die — and  smiled. 
The  mother  ?  she  had  gone  before  ; 
And  in  the  cottage  on  the  moor. 
With  none  to  watch  her  and  caress, 
No  arm  to  clasp,  no  voice  to  bless, 
The  witless  child  grew  up  alone, 
And  made  all  Nature's  book  her  own. 


LILLIAN.  19 

If,  in  the  warm  and  passionate  hour 
When  Reason  sleeps  m  Fancy's  bower, 
If  thou  hast  ever,  ever  felt 
A  dream  of  delicate  beauty  melt 

Into  the  heart's  recess. 
Seen  by  the  soul,  and  seen  by  the  mind, 

But  indistinct  its  loveliness, 
Adored,  and  not  defined ; 
A  bright  creation,  a  shadowy  ray, 
Fading  and  flitting  in  mist  away. 
Nothing  to  gaze  on,  and  nothing  to  hear, 
But  something  to  cheat  the  eye  and  ear 
With  a  fond  conception  and  joy  of  both. 
So  that  you  might,  that  hour,  be  loth 
To  change  for  some  one's  sweetest  kiss 
The  visions  of  unenduring  bliss. 
Or  lose  some  one's  sweetest  tone. 
The  murmur  thou  drinkest  all  alone — 
If  such  a  vision  hath  ever  been  thine. 
Thou  hast  a  heart  that  may  look  on  mine ! 

For,  oh!  the  light  of  my  saddened  theme 

Was  like  to  naught  but  a  poet's  dream. 

Or  the  forms  that  come  on  the  twilight's  wing, 

Shaped  by  the  soul's  imagining. 

Beautiful  shade  with  her  tranquil  air. 

And  her  thin  white  arm,  and  her  flowing  hair. 

And  the  light  of  her  eye  so  coldly  obscure, 

And  the  hue  of  her  cheek  so  pale  and  pure  ! 

Reason  and  thought  she  had  never  known, 

Her  heart  was  as  cold  as  a  heart  of  stone ; 


Ol 


20  LILLIAN. 

So  you  might  guess  from  her  eyes'  dim  rays, 
And  her  idiot  laugh,  and  her  vacant  gaze. 
She  wandered  about  all  lone  on  the  heather, 
She  and  the  wild  heath-birds  together^; 
For  Lillian  seldom  spoke  or  smiled. 
But  she  sang  as  sweet  as  a  little  child. 
Into  her  song  her  dreams  would  throng. 

Silly,  and  wild,  and  out  of  place ; 
And  yet  that  wild  and  roving  song 

Entranced  the  soul  in  its  desolate  grace. 
And  hence  the  story  had  ever  rui>, 
That  the  fairest  of  dames  was  a  headless  one. 

The  pilgrim  in  his  foreign  weeds 

Would  falter  in  his  prayer ; 
And  the  monk  would  pause  in  his  half-told  beads 

To  breathe  a  blessing  there  ; 
The  knight  would  loose  his  vizor-clasp. 
And  drop  the  rein  from  his  nerveless  grasp, 
And  pass  his  hand  across  his  brow 
With  a  sudden  sigh,  and  a  whispered  vow. 
And  marvel  Flattery's  tale  was  told, 
From  a  lip  so  young  to  an  ear  so  cold. 
She  had  seen  her  sixteenth  winter  out, 
When  she  met  with  the  beast  I  was  sinking  about ; 
The  dragon,  I  told  you,  had  dined  that  day  ; 
So  he  gazed  upon  her  as  he  lay. 
Earnestly  looking,  and  looking  long. 
With  his  appetite  weak  and  his  wonder  strong. 
Silent  he  lay  in  his  motionless  coil ; 
And  the  song  of  the  lady  was  sweet  the  while : — 


LILLIAN.  21 

"  Nonny  Nonny  !  I  hear  it  float, 

Innocent  bird,  thy  tremulous  note  : 
•    It  comes  from  thy  home  in  the  eglantine, 
And  I  stay  this  idle  song  of  mine, 
Nonny  Nonny  !  to  listen  to  thine  ! 

"  Nonny  Nonny  !  '  Lillian  sings 
The  sweetest  of  all  living  things  !' 
So  Sir  Launcelot  averred ; 
But  surely  Sir  Launcelot  never  heard 
Nonny  Nomiy  !  the  natural  bird  !" 

The  dragon  he  lay  in  mute  amaze, 

Till  something  of  kindness  crept  into  his  gaze ; 

He  drew  the  flames  of  his  nostrils  in. 

He  veiled  his  claws  with  their  speckled  skin. 

He  curled  his  fangs  in  a  hideous  smile ; 

And  the  song  of  the  lady  was  sweet  the  while : — ' 

"  Nonny  Nonny !  who  shall  tell 
Where  the  summer  breezes  dwell  1 
Lightly  and  brightly  they  breathe  and  blow. 
But  whence  they  come  and  whither  they  go, 
Nonny  Nonny!  who  shall  know? 

"  Nonny  Nonny !  I  hear  your  tone, 
But  I  feel  ye  cannot  read  mine  own ; 
And  I  lift  my  neck  to  your  fond  embraces, 
But  who  hath  seen  in  your  resting-places, 
Nonny  Nonny  !  your  beautiful  faces  V^ 


22  LILLIAN. 

A  moment !  and  the  dragon  came 

Crouching  down  to  the  peerless  dame, 

With  his  fierce  red  eye  so  fondly  shining, 

And  his  terrible  tail  so  meekly  twining, 

And  the  scales  on  his  huge  limbs  gleaming  o'er, 

Gayer  than  ever  they  gleamed  before. 

She  had  won  his  heart,  while  she  charmed  his  ear, 

And  Lillian  smiled,  and  knew  no  fear. 

And  see,  she  mounts  between  his  wings ; 

(Never  a  queen  had  a  gaudier  throne,) 
And  faery-like  she  sits  and  sings, 

Guiding  the  steed  with  a  touch  and  a  tone. 
Aloft,  aloft  in  the  clear  blue  ether. 
The  dame  and  the  dragon  they  soared  together ; 
He  bore  her  away  on  the  breath  of  the  gale — 
The  two  little  dwarfs  held  fast  by  the  tail. 

Panny  !  a  pretty  group  for  drawing  ; 

My  dragon  like  a  war-horse  pawing, 

My  dwarfs  in  a  fright,  and  my  girl  in  an  attitude, 

Patting  the  beast  in  her  soulless  gratitude. 

There ;  you  may  try  it  if  you  will. 

While  I  drink  my  coffee  and  nib  my  quill. 


CANTO    II. 

The  sun  shone  out  on  hill  and  grove ; 

It  was  a  glorious  day, 
The  lords  and  ladies  were  making  love. 

And  the  clowns  were  making  hay ; 


LILLIAN.  23 

But  the  town  of  Brentford  marked  with  wonder 

A  lightning  in  the  sky,  and  thunder, 

And  thinking  ('t  was  a  thinking  town) 

Some  prodigy  was  coming  down, 

A  mighty  mob  to  Merlin  went, 

To  learn  the  cause  of  this  portent ; 

And  he,  a  wizard  sage,  but  comical, 

Looked  through  his  glasses  astronomical, 

And  puzzled  every  foolish  sconce 

By  this  oracular  response : 

"  Now  the  slayer  doth  not  slay, 

Weakness  Jlings  her  fear  away, 

Power  hears  the  poiverless, 

Pity  rides  the  pitiless  ; 

Are  ye  lovers  ?  are  ye  brave  ? 

Hear  ye  this,  and  seek,  and  save  ! 
He  that  would  wed  the  loveliest  maid, 

Must  don  the  stoutest  mail. 
For  the  rider  shall  never  be  sound  in  the  head, 

Till  the  ridden  be  maimed  in  the  tail. 
Hey  diddle  diddle  !  the  cat  and  the  fiddle  ! 
None  but  the  lover  can  read  me  my  riddle  /" 

How  kind  art  thou,  and  oh  !  how  mighty, 
Cupid  !  thou  son  of  Aphrodite  ! 
By  thy  sole  aid  in  old  romance, 
Heroes  and  heroines  sing  and  dance  ; 
Of  cane  and  rod  there's  little  need ; 
They  never  learn  to  write  or  read ; 


24  LILLIAN. 

Yet  often,  by  thy  sudden  light, 

Enamored  dames  contrive  to  write ; 

And  often,  in  the  hour  of  need, 

Enamored  youths  contrive  to  read. 

(I  make  a  small  digression  here : 

I  merely  mean  to  make  it  clear, 

That  if  Sir  Eglamour  had  wit 

To  read  and  construe,  bit  by  bit. 

All  that  the  wizard  had  expressed. 

And  start  conjectures  on  the  rest, 

Cupid  had  sharpened  lais  discerning, 

The  little  god  of  love,  and  learning.) 

He  revolved  in  his  bed  what  Merlin  had  said, 

Though  Merlin  had  labored  to  scatter  a  veil  on't ; 
And  found  out  the  sense  of  the  tail  and  the  head 

Though  none  of  his   neighbors   could  make  head  ot 
tail  on't. 
Sir  Eglamour  was  one  o'  the  best 

Of  Arthur's  table  round ; 
He  never  set  his  spear  in  rest. 

But  a  dozen  went  to  the  ground. 
Clear  and  warm  as  the  lightning  flame, 
His  valor  from  his  father  came. 

His  cheek  was  like  his  mother's  ; 
And  his  hazel  eye  more  clearly  shone 
Than  any  I  ever  have  looked  upon, 

Save  Fanny's  and  two  others ! 
With  his  spur  so  bright,  and  his  rein  so  light. 

And  his  steed  so  swift  and  ready  ; 
And  his  skilful  sword,  to  wound  or  ward. 

And  his  spear  so  sure  and  steady, 


LILLIAX.  ~  25 


He  bore  him  like  a  Britisli  knight 

rrom  London  to  Penzance ; 
Avenged  all  weeping  women's  slight, 

And  made  all  giants  dance. 
And  he  had  travelled  far  from  home, 

Had  worn  a  mask  at  Venice, 
Had  kissed  the  Bishop's  toe  at  Rome, 

And  beat  the  French  at  tennis : 
Hence  he  had  many  a  courtly  play. 

And  jeerings  and  jibes  in  plenty. 
And  he  wrote  more  rhymes  in  a  single  day 

Than  Byron  or  Bowles  in  twenty. 

He  clasped  to  his  side  his  sword  of  pride, 
His  sword,  whose  native  polish  vied 

With  many  a  gory  stain ; 
Keen  and  bright  as  a  meteor-light ; 
But  not  so  keen  and  not  so  bright. 

As  Moultrie's*  jesting  vein. 
And  his  shield  he  bound  his  arm  around. 
His  shield,  whose  dark  and  dingy  round, 

Naught  human  could  get  through  ; 
Heavy  and  thick  as  a  wall  of  brick, 
But  not  so  heavy  and  not  so  thick 

As  Roberts's  Review,  f 


*  Eev.  John  'Moultrie,  who,  in  1823,  (tvhen  many  manuscript  co- 
pies of  "  Lillian"  were  in  circnlatioii.)  wrote  some  beiiutiful  aad  pa- 
thetic VricS)  s^otae  of  which  appeared  in  Knight's  Quurteily  Ma.gimp.Q. 

t "  My  Grandmother'3  Eeview— the  British."— Z>^  Juan.  Koberta 
was  the  editor.—  Vide  ByrorCa  celebrated  Letter  to  liim. 

2 


26  LILLIAN. 

"With  a  smile  and  a  jest  he  set  out  on  the  quest, 

Clad  in  his  stoutest  mail, 
With  his  helm  of  the  best,  and  his  spear  in  the  rest, 

To  flay  the  dragon's  tail. 

The  warrior  travelled  wearily, 

Many  a  league  and  many  a  mile ; 
And  the  dragon  sailed  in  the  clear  blue  sky  ; 

And  the  song  of  the  lady  was  sweet  the  while : — 

"  My  steed  and  I,  my  steed  and  I, 
On  in  the  path  of  the  winds  we  fly, 
And  I  chase  the  planets  that  wander  at  even, 
And  bathe  my  hair  in  the  dews  of  heaven ! 
Beautiful  stars,  so  thin  and  bright, 
Exquisite  visions  of  vapor  and  light, 
I  love  ye  all  with  a  sister's  love. 
And  I  rove  Math  ye  wherever  ye  rove. 
And  I  drink  your  changeless,  endless  song, 
The  music  ye  make  as  ye  wander  along ! 
Oh !  let  me  be,  as  one  of  ye, 
[Floating  for  aye  on  your  liquid  sea ; 
And  I'll  feast  with  you  on  the  purest  rain, 
To  cool  my  weak  and  wildered  brain. 
And  I'll  give  you  the  loveliest  lock  of  my  hair 
Tor  a  little  spot  in  your  realm  of  air  !" 

The  dragon  came  down  when  the  morn  shone  bright, 

And  slept  in  the  beam  of  the  sun ; 
Fatigued,  no  doubt,  with  his  airy  flight, 

As  I  with  my  jingling  one. 


■■/ 


LILLIAN.  27 

With  such  a  monstrous  adversary- 
Sir  Eglamour  was  far  too  weary- 
To  think  of  bandying  knocks  ; 
He  came  on  his  foe  as  still  as  death, 
Walking  on  tiptoe,  and  holding  his  breath. 
And  instead  of  drawing  his  sword  from  his  sheath, 

He  drew  a  pepper-box  ! 
The  pepper  was  as  hot  as  flame. 
The  box  of  a  wondrous  size ; 
He  gazed  one  moment  on  the  dame. 
Then,  with  a  sure  and  steady  aim  ' 

Full  in  the  dragon's  truculent  phiz 
He  flung  the  scorching  powder — whiz ! 
And  darkened  both  his  eyes ! 

Have  you  not  seen  a  little  kite 
Rushing  away  on  its  paper  wing. 
To  mix  with  the  wild  wind's  quarrelling? 
Up  it  soars  with  an  arrowy  flight. 

Till,  weak  and  unsteady, 

Torn  by  the  eddy. 
It  dashes  to  earth  from  its  hideous  height? 
Such  was  the  rise  of  the  beast  in  his  pain, 
Such  was  his  falling  to  earth  again ; 
Upward  he  shot,  but  he  saw  not  his  path, 
Blinded  with  pepper,  and  blinded  with  wrath  ; 
One  struggle — one  vain  one — of  pain  and  emotion! 
And  he  shot  back  again,  like  "  a  bird  of  the  ocean  !" 
Long  he  lay  in  a  trance  that  day, 


28  LILLIAN. 

Aud  alas !  he  did  not  wake  before 
The  cruel  knight  with  skill  and  might, 
Had  lopped  and  flayed  the  tail  he  wore. 

Twelve  hours  by  the  chime  he  lay  in  his  slime, 

More  utterly  blind,  I  trow, 
Than  a  Polypheme  in  the  olden  time, 

Or  a  politician  now. 
He  sped,  as  soon  as  he  could  see. 
To  the  Paynim  bowers  of  Rosalie ; 
For  there  the  dragon  had  hope  to  cure, 
By  the  tinkling  rivulets,  ever  pure, 
By  the  glowing  sun,  and  fragrant  gale. 
His  wounded  honor  and  wounded  tail ! 
He  hied  him  away  to  the  perfumed  spot : 
The  little  dwarfs  clung — where  the  tail  was  not ! 
The  damsel  gazed  on  that  young  knight. 
With  somethuig  of  terror,  but  more  of  delight ; 
Much  she  admired  the  gauntlets  he  wore, 
Much  the  device  that  his  buckler  bore, 
Much  the  feathers  that  danced  on  his  crest. 
But  most  the  baldrick  that  shone  on  his  breast. 
She  thought  the  dragon's  pilfered  scale 
Was  fairer  far  than  the  warrior's  mail, 
And  she  lifted  it  up  with  her  weak  white  arm, 
Unconscious  of  its  hidden  charm. 
And  round  her  throbbing  bosom  tied. 
In  mimicry  of  warlike  pride. 

Gone  is  the  spell  that  bound  her ! 
The  talisman  hath  touched  her  heart. 
And  she  leaps  with  a  fearful  and  fawn-like  start 


LILLIAN.  29 


As  the  shades  of  glamoiy  deparl 

Strange  thoughts  are  glimmering  round  her  ; 

Deeper  and  deeper  her  cheek  is  glowing, 

Quicker  and  quicker  her  breath  is  flowing, 

And  her  eye  gleams  out  from  its  long  dark  lashes, 

Fast  and  full,  unnatural  flashes ; 

For  hurriedly  and  wild 
Doth  Eeason  pour  her  hidden  treasures, 
Of  human  griefs,  and  human  pleasures, 

Upon  her  new-found  child. 
And  "  oh  !"  she  saith,  "  my  spirit  doth  seem 
To  have  risen  to-day  from  a  pleasant  dream  ; 
A  long,  long  dream — but  I  feel  it  breaking ! 
Painfully  sweet  is  the  throb  of  waking  ;" 
And  then  she  laughed,  and  wept  again  : 
While,  gazing  on  her  heart's  first  rain, 
Bound  in  its  turn  by  a  magic  chain. 

The  silent  youth  stood  there  : 
Never  had  either  been  so  blest ; — 
You  that  are  young  may  picture  the  rest, 

You  that  are  young  and  fair. 
Never  before,  on  this  warm  land. 
Came  Love  and  Reason  hand  in  hand. 

When  you  are  blest,  in  childhood's  years 
With  the  brightest  hopes  and  the  lightest  fears, 
Have  you  not  wandered  in  your  dream, 
Where  a  greener  glow  was  on  the  ground, 
And  a  clearer  breath  in  the  air  around. 
And  a  purer  life  in  the  gay  sunbeam. 
And  a  tremulous  murmur  in  every  tree. 
And  a  motionless  sleep  on  the  quiet  sea  1 


30  LILLIAN. 

And  have  you  not  lingered,  lingered  still, 
All  unfettered  in  thought  and  will, 

A  fair  and  cherished  boy  ; 
Until  you  felt  it  pain  to  part 
From  the  wild  creations  of  your  art, 
Until  your  young  and  innocent  heart 

Seemed  bursting  with  its  joy  1 
And  then,  oh  then,  hath  your  waking  eye 
Opened  in  all  its  ecstacy, 
And  seen  your  mother  leaning  o'er  you, 
The  loved  and  loving  one  that  bore  you, 
Giving  her  own,  her  fond  caress. 
And  looking  her  eloquent  tenderness  ? 
Was  it  not  heaven  to  fly  from  the  scene 
Where  the  heart  in  the  vision  of  night  had  been, 
And  drink,  in  one  o'erflowing  kiss. 
Your  deep  reality  of  bliss  1 
Such  was  Lillian's  passionate  madness, 
Such  was  the  calm  of  her  waking  gladness. 

Enough !  my  tale  is  all  too  long  : 
Fair  children,  if  the  trifling  song. 

That  flows  for  you  to-night. 
Hath  stolen  from  you  one  gay  laugh, 
Or  given  your  quiet  hearts  to  quaff" 

One  cup  of  young  delight. 
Pay  ye  the  rhymer  for  his  toils 
In  the  coinage  of  your  golden  smiles. 
And  treasure  up  his  idle  verse. 
With  the  stories  ye  loved  from  the  lips  of  your  nurse. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  BELMONT. 


A   LEGEND    OF    THE    RHINE. 

Where  foams  and  flo-fljs  the  glorious  Rhine, 

Many  a  ruin  wan  and  gray 
O'erlooks  the  corn-field  and  the  vine, 

Majestic  in  its  dark  decay. 
Among  their  dim  clouds,  long  ago, 
They  mocked  the  battles  that  raged  below, 
And  greeted  the  guests  in  arms  that  came, 
With  hissing  arrow,  and  scalding  flame  : 
But  there  is  not  one  of  the  homes  of  pride 
That  frown  on  the  breast  of  the  peaceful  tide, 
Whose  leafy  walls  more  proudly  tower 
Than  these,  the  walls  of  Belmont  Tower. 

Where  foams  and  flows  the  glorious  Rhine, 

Many  a  fierce  and  fiery  lord 
Did  carve  the  meat,  and  pour  the  wine, 

Eor  all  that  revelled  at  his  board.    , 
Father  and  son,  they  were  all  alike, 
Firm  to  endure,  and  fast  to  strike  j 


32  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

Little  they  loved  but  a  Frau  or  a  feast, 
Nothing  they  feared  but  a  prayer  or  a  priest ; 
But  there  was  not  one  in  all  the  land 
More  trusty  of  heart,  or  more  stout  of  hand, 
More  valiant  in  field,  or  more  courteous  in  bower, 
Than  Otto,  the  Lord  of  Belmont  Tower. 

Are  you  rich,  single,  and  '  your  Grace '  1 

I  pity  your  unhappy  case  ; 

Before  you  leave  your  travelling  carriage, 

The  women  have  arranged  your  marriage ; 

Where'er  your  weaiy  wit  may  lead  you. 

They  pet  you,  praise  you,  fret  you,  feed  you  ; 

Consult  your  taste  in  wreaths  and  laces. 

And  make  you  make  their  books  at  Races, 

Your  little  pony.  Tarn  O'Shanter, 

Is  found  to  have  the  sweetest  canter ; 

Your  curricle  is  quite  reviving, 

And  Jane  's  so  bold  when  you  are  driving ! 

Some  recollect  youi*  father's  habits, 

And  know  the  warren,  and  the  rabbits ! 

The  place  is  really  princely — only 

They  're  sure  you  '11  find  it  vastly  lonely. 

You  go  to  Cheltenham,  for  the  waters, 

And  meet  the  Countess  and  her  daughters  ; 

You  take  a  cottage  at  Geneva — 

Lo  !  Lady  Anne  and  Lady  Eva. 

In  horror  of  another  session. 

You  just  surrender  at  discretion. 

And  live  to  curse  the  frauds  of  mothers, 

And  envy  all  your  younger  brothers. 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  S3 

Count  Otto  bowed,  Count  Otto  smiled, 

When  My  Lady  praised  her  darling  child  ; 

Count  Otto  smiled,  Count  Otto  bowed, 

When  the  child  those  praises  disavowed ; 

As  a  knight  should  gaze  Count  Otto  gazed, 

Where  Bertha  in  all  her  beauty  blazed ; 

As  a  knight  should  hear  Count  Otto  heard, 

When  Liba  sang  like  a  forest  bird — 

But  he  thought,  I  trow,  about  as  long 

Of  Bertha's  beauty  and  Liba's  song. 

As  the  sun  may  think  of  the  clouds  that  play 

O'er  his  radiant  path  on  a  summer  day. 

INIany  a  maid  had  dreams  of  state. 

As  the  Count  rode  up  to  her  father's  gate ; 

Many  a  maid  shed  tears  of  pain. 

As  the  count  rode  back  to  his  Tower  aeain : 

But  little  he  cared,  as  it  should  seem. 

For  the  sad,  sad  tear,  or  the  fond,  fond  dream — • 

Alone  he  lived — alone,  and  free 

As  the  owl  that  dwells  in  the  hollow  tree : 

And  the  Baroness  said,  and  the  Baron  swore, 

There  never  was  knight  so  shy  before  ! 

It  was  almost  the  first  of  May  : 
The  sun  all  smiles  had  passed  away; 

The  moon  was  beautifully  bright; 
Earth,  heaven,  as  usual  in  such  cases, 
Looked  up  and  down  with  happy  faces ; 

In  short,  it  was  a  charming  night. 
And  all  alone,  at  twelve  o'clock, 

The  young  Count  clambered  down  the  rock, 

2* 


34  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

Unfurled  the  sail,  unchained  the  oar, 

And  pushed  the  shallop  from  the  shore. 

The  holiness  that  sweet  time  flings 

Upon  all  human  thoughts  and  things, 

When  Sorrow  checks  her  idle  sighs. 

And  care  shuts  fast  her  wearied  eyes ; 

The  splendor  of  the  hues  that  played 

Fantastical  o'er  hill  and  glade, 

As  verdant  slope  and  barren  cliff 

Seemed  darting  by  the  tiny  skiff; 

The  flowers,  whose  faint  tips,  here  and  there, 

Breathed  out  such  fragrance,  you  might  swear 

That  every  soundless  gale  that  fanned 

The  tide  came  fresh  from  fairy  land  ; 

The  music  of  the  mountain  rill, 

Leaping  in  glee  from  hill  to  hill. 

To  which  some  wild  bird,  now  and  then, 

Made  answer  from  her  darksome  glen — 

All  this  to  him  had  rarer  pleasure 

Than  jester's  wit  or  minstrel's  measure  ; 

And,  if  you  ever  loved  romancing, 

Or  felt  extremely  tired  of  dancing. 

You  will  not  wonder  that  Count  Otto 

Left  Lady  Hildegonde's  ridotto. 

What  melody  glides  o'er  the  star-lit  stream  ? 

"Lurley!  Lurley  !" 
Angels  of  grace  !  does  the  young  Count  dream  ? 

"Lurley!  Lurley!" 
Or  is  the  scene  indeed  so  fair 
That  a  nymph  of  the  sea  or  a  nymph  of  the  air 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  35 

Has  left  the  home  of  her  own  delisht. 
To  sing  to  our  roses  or  rocks  to-night  ? 

"Lurley!  Lurley !" 
Words  there  are  none ;  but  the  waves  prolong 
The  notes  of  that  mysterious  song : 
He  listens,  and  listens,  and  all  around 
Ripple  the  echoes  of  that  sweet  sound — 

"Lurley!  Lurley!" 
No  form  appears  on  the  river  side ; 
No  boat  is  borne  on  the  wandering  tide ; 
And  the  tones  ring  on,  with  naught  to  show 
Or  whence  they  come  or  whither  they  go — 

"Lurley!  Lurley!" 
As  fades  one  niui^mur  on  the  ear, 
There  comes  another,  just  as  clear  ; 
And  the  present  is  like  to  the  parted  strain 
As  link  to  link  of  a  golden  chain  : 

Lurley  !  Lurley  !" 
Whether  the  voice  be  sad  or  gay, 
'T  were  very  hard  for  the  Count  to  say  ; 
But  pale  are  his  cheeks  and  pained  his  brow, 
And  the  boat  drifts  on  he  recks  not  how  ; 
His  pulse  is  quick  and  his  heart  is  wild, 
And  he  weeps,  he  weeps,  like  a  little  child. 

^  Oh  mighty  music !  they  who  know 
The  witchery  of  thy  wondrous  bow, 
Forget,  Avhen  thy  strange  spells  have  bound  them, 
The  visible  world  that  lies  around  them. 
When  Lady  Mary  sings  Rosini, 
Or  stares  at  spectral  Paganini, 


36  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMOJTT. 

To  Lady  Mary  does  it  matter 

Who  laugh,  who  love,  who  frown,  who  flatter  ? 

Oh  no  ;  she  cannot  heed  or  hear 

Reason  or  rhyme  from  prince  or  peer : 

In  vain  for  her  Sir  Charles  denounces 

The  horror  of  the  last  new  flounces ; 

In  vain  the  Doctor  does  his  duty 

By  doubting  of  her  rival's  beauty  ; 

And  if  my  Lord,  as  usual,  raves 

About  the  sugar  or  the  slaves, 

Predicts  the  nation's  future  glories, 

And  chants  the  reqiiiem  of  the  Tories, 

Good  man !  she  minds  him  just  as  much 

As  Marshal  Gerard  minds  the  Dutch. 

Hid  was  the  bright  heaven's  loveliness 

Beneath  a  sudden  cloud, 
As  a  bride  might  doflf  her  bridal  dress 

To  don  her  funeral  shroud  ; 
And  over  flood,  and  over  fell. 

With  a  wild,  and  wicked  shout, 
From  the  secret  cell,  where  in  chains  they  dwell, 

The  joyous  winds  rushed  out ; 
And  the  dark  hills  through,  the  thunder  flew. 

And  down  the  fierce  hail  came  ; 
And  from  peak  to  peak  the  lightning  threw 

Its  shafts  of  liquid  flame. 
The  boat  went  down ;  without  delay, 
The  luckless  boatman  swooned  away ; 
And  when,  as  a  clear  Spring  morning  rose 
He  woke  in  wonder  from  repose, 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  37 

The  river  was  calm  as  the  river  could  be, 

And  the  thrush  was  av^ake  on  the  gladsome  tree, 

And  there  he  lay,  in  a  sunny  cave. 

On  the  margin  of  the  tranquil  wave, 

Half  deaf  witli,that  infernal  din. 

And  wet,  poor  fellow,  to  the  skin. 

He  looked  to  the  left  and  he  looked  to  the  right — 

Why  hastened  he  not,  the  noble  knight, 

To  dry  his  aged  nurse's  tears. 

To  calm  the  hoary  butler's  fears, 

To  listen  to  the  prudent  speeches 

Of  half  a  dozen  loquacious  leeches — 
To  swallow  cordials  circumspectly. 

And  change  his  di'ipping  cloak  directly  1 

"With  foot  outstretched,  with  hand  upraised, 

In  vast  surprise  he  gazed,  and  gazed  : 

Within  a  deep  and  damp  recess 

A  maiden  lay  in  her  loveliness ! 

Lived  she  1 — in  sooth  't  were  hard  to  tell, 

Sleep  counterfeited  Death  so  well. 

A  shelf  of  the  rock  was  all  her  bed ; 

A  ceiling  of  crystal  was  o'er  her  head ; 

Silken  robe,  nor  satin  vest. 

Shrouded  her  form  in  its  silent  rest ; 

Only  her  long,  long  golden  hair 

About  her  lay  like  a  thin  robe  there  ; 

Up  to  her  couch  the  young  knight  crept : 

How  very  sound  the  maiden  slept ! 

Fearful  and  faint  the  young  knight  sighed  : 

The  echoes  of  the  cave  replied. 


38  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

He  leaned  to  look  upon  her  face  ; 

He  clasped  her  hand  in  wild  embrace ; 

Never  was  form  of  such  fine  mould — 

But  the  hands  and  the  face  were  as  white  and  cold 

As  they  of  the  Parian  stone  were  made, 

To  which,  in  great  Minerva's  shade, 

The  Athenian  sculptor's  toilsome  knife 

Gave  all  of  loveliness  but  life. 

On  her  fair  neck  there  seemed  no  stain, 

"Where  the  pure  blood  coursed  thro'  the  delicate  vein ; 

And  her  breath,  if  breath  indeed  it  were. 

Flowed  in  a  current  so  soft  and  rare. 

It  would  scarcely  have  stirred  the  young  moth's  wing 

On  the  path  of  his  noonday  wandering ; 

Never  on  earth  a  creature  trod, 

Half  so  lovely,  or  half  so  odd. 

Count!  Otto  stares  till  his  eyelids  ache. 

And  wonders  when  she  '11  please  to  wake  ; 

AVhile  Fancy  whispei's  strange  suggestions. 

And  Wonder  prompts  a  score  of  questions. 

Is  she  a  nymph  of  another  sphere  1 

Whence  came  she  hither  1 — what  doth  she  here  1 

Or  if  the  morning  of  her  birth 

Be  registered  on  this  our  earth. 

Why  hath  she  fled  from  her  father's  halls  ? 

And  where  hath  she  left  her  cloaks  and  shawls  1 

There  was  no  time  for  Reason's  lectures. 

There  was  no  time  for  Wit's  conjectures  ; 

He  threw  his  arm,  with  timid  haste, 

Around  the  maiden's  slender  waist, 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  39 

And  raised  her  up  in  a  modest  way, 
From  the  cold,  bare  rock  on  which  she  lay. 
He  was  but  a  mile  from  his  castle  gate, 
And  the  lady  was  scarcely  five  stone  weight ; 
He  stopped,  in  less  than  half  an  hour. 
With  his  beauteous  burden,  at  Belmont  Tower. 

Gay,  I  ween,  was  the  chamber  dressed, 

As  the  Count  gave  order  for  his  guest ; 

But  scarcely  on  the  couch  'tis  said, 

That  gentle  guest  was  fairly  laid. 

When  she  opened  at  once  her  great  blue  eyes, 

And,  after  a  glance  of  brief  surprise. 

Ere  she  had  spoken,  and  ere  she  had  heard 

Of  wisdom  or  wit  a  single  word. 

She  laughed  so  long,  and  laughed  so  loud, 

That  Dame  Ulrica  often  vowed 

A  dirge  is  a  merrier  thing  by  half 

Than  such  a  senseless,  soulless  laugh. 

Around  the  tower  the  elfin  crew 

Seemed  shouting  in  mirthful  concert  too ; 

And  echoed  roof,  and  trembled  rafter, 

With  that  unsentimental  laughter. 

As  soon  as  that  droll  tumult  passed, 
The  maiden's  tongue,  unchained  at  last, 
Asserted  all  its  female  right, 
And  talked  and  talked  with  all  its  might. 
Oh,  how  her  low  and  liquid  voice 
Made  the  rapt  hearer's  soul  rejoice ! 


40  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMOKT. 

'T  was  full  of  those  clear  tones  that  start 

From  innocent  childhood's  happy  heart, 

Ere  passion  and  sin  disturb  the  well 

In  which  their  mirth  and  music  dwell. 

But  man  nor  master  could  make  out 

What  the  eloquent  maiden  talked  about; 

The  things  she  uttered  like  did  seem 

To  the  babbling  waves  of  a  limpid  stream ; 

For  the  words  of  her  speech,  if  words  they  might  be, 

Were  the  words  of  a  speech  of  a  far  countrie ; 

And  when  she  had  said  them  o'er  and  o'er. 

Count  Otto  understood  no  more 

Than  you  or  I  of  the  slang  that  falls 

From  dukes  and  dupes  at  Tattcrsall's, 

Of  Hebrew  from  a  bearded  Jew, 

Or  metaphysics  from  a  Blue, 

Count  Otto  swore,  (Count  Otto's  reading 

Might  well  have  taught  him  better  breeding,) 

That  whether  the  maiden  should  fume  or  fret, 

The  maiden  should  not  leave  him  yet ; 

And  so  he  k)ok  prodigious  pains 

To  make  her  happy  in  her  chains  ; 

From  Paris  came  a  pair  of  cooks, 

From  Gottingen  a  load  of  books ; 

From  Venice  stores  of  gorgeous  suits, 

From  Florence  minstrels  and  their  lutes; 

The  youth  himself  had  special  pride 

In  breaking  horses  for  his  bride ; 

And  his  old  tutor,  Doctor  Hermann, 

Was  brought  from  Bonn  to  teach  her  Gei-man. 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BKLMONT. 

And  there  in  her  beauty  and  her  grace 

The  wayward  maiden  grew ; 
And  every  day,  of  her  form  or  face 

Some  charm  seemed  fresh  and  new ; 
Over  her  cold  and  colorless  cheek 

The  blush  of  the  rose  was  shed, 
And  her  quickened  pulse  began  to  speak 

Of  human  hope  and  dread ! 
And  soon  she  grasped  the  learned  lore 

The  old  gray  pedant  taught, 
And  turned  from  the  volume  to  explore 

The  hidden  mine  of  thought. 
Alas  !  her  bliss  was  not  the  same 

As  it  was  in  other  years, 
For  with  new  kiwwledge  sorrow  came, 

And  with  new  passion  tears. 
Oft,  till  the  Count  came  up  from  wine. 

She  would  sit  by  the  lattice  high. 
And  watch  the  windings  of  the  Ehine 

With  a  very  wistful  eye ; 
And  oft  on  some  rude  cliff  she  stood. 

Her  light  harp  in  her  hand, 
And  still  as  she  looked  on  the  gurgling  flood, 

She  sang  of  her  native  land. 
And  when  Count  Otto  pleaded  well 

For  priest,  and  ring,  and  vow, 
She  heard  the  knight  that  fond  tale  tell. 

With  a  pale  and  pensive  brow : 
*'  Henceforth  my  spirit  may  not  sleep, 

As  ever  till  now  it  slept ; 


41 


42  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

Henceforth  mine  eyes  have  learned  to  weep, 

As  never  till  now  they  wept. 
Twelve  months,  dear  Otto,  let  me  grieve 

For  my  own,  my  childhood's  home, 
Where  the  sun  at  noon,  or  the  frost  at  eve, 

Did  never  dare  to  come ; 
And  when  the  Spring  its  smiles  recalls, 

Thy  maiden  will  resign 
The  holy  hush  of  her  father's  halls 

For  the  stormy  joys  of  thine." 
But  where  that  father's  halls  ? — vain,  vain  ! 

She  threw  her  sad  eyes  down ; 
And  if  you  dared  to  ask  again, 

She  answered  with  a'  fi'o\vn. 

Some  people  have  a  knack,  we  know. 
Of  saying  things  mal-a-propos, 
And  making  all  the  world  reflect 
On  what  it  hates  to  recollect : 
They  talk  to  misers  of  their  heir, 
To  women  of  the  times  that  were, 
To  ruined  gamblers  of  the  box. 
To  thin  defaulters  of  the  stocks, 
To  cowards  of  their  neighbors'  duels. 
To  Hayne  of  Lady  H.'s  jewels, 
To  poets  of  the  wrong  Review, 
And  to  the  French  of  Waterloo. 
The  Count  was  not  of  these ;  he  never 
Was  half  so  clumsy,  half  so  clever ; 
And  when  he  found  the  girl  had  rather 
Say  nothing  more  about  her  father, 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  43 

He  changed  the  subject — told  a  fable — 
Believed  that  dinner  was  on  the  table — 
Or  whispered,  with  an  air  of  sorrow, 
Th^  it  would  surely  rain  to-morrow. 

The  Winter  storms  went  darkly  by, 
And,  from  a  blue  and  cloudless  sky. 
Again  the  sun  looked  cheerfully 

Upon  the  rolling  Ehine  ; 
And  Spring  brought  back  to  the  budding  fl  wera 
Its  genial  light  and  freshening  showers, 
And  music  to  the  shady  bowers, 

And  verdure  to  the  vine. 

And  now  it  was  the  First  of  May 
For  twenty  miles  round  all  is  gay  , 
Cottage  and  castle  keep  holiday ; 

For  how  should  sorrow  lower 
On  brow  of  rustic  or  of  knight, 
When  heaven  itself  looks  all  so  bright, 
Where  Otto's  wedding  feast  is  dight 

In  the  hall  of  Belmont  Tower  1 
Stately  matron  and  warrior  tall 
Come  to  the  joyous  festival ; 
Good  Count  Otto  welcomes  all, 

As  through  the  gate  they  throng  ; 
He  fills  to  the  brim  the  wassail  cup  ; 
In  the  bright  wine  Pleasure  sparkles  up, 

And  draughts  and  tales  grow  long  ; 
But  grizly  knights  are  still  and  mute, 
And  dames  set  down  the  untasted  fruit, 


44  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

When  the  hride  takes  up  her  golden  lute, 
And  sings  her  solemn  song  : 

"  A  voice  ye  hear  not,  in  mine  ear  is  crying  ; 

AVhat  does  the  sad  voice  say  1 
'  Dost  thou  not  heed  thy  weary  father's  sighing  ? 
Return,  return  to-day  ! 

Twelve  moons  have  faded  now  : 
My  daughter,  where  art  thou  V 

"  Peace !  in  the  silent  evening  we  will  meet  thee, 
Gray  ruler  of  the  tide  ! 
Must  not  the  lover  with  the  loved  one  greet  thee  1 
The  bridegroom  witJa  his  bride  1 
Deck  the  dim  couch  aright, 
The  bridal  couch  to-night." 

Tlie  nurses  to  the  children  say 

That,  as  the  maiden  sang  that  day. 

The  Rhine  to  the  heights  of  the  beetling  tower 

Sent  up  a  cry  of  fiercer  power. 

And  again  the  maiden's  cheek  was  grown 

As  white  as  ever  was  marble  stone, 

And  the  bridesmaid  her  hand  could  hardly  hold. 

Its  fingers  were  so  icy  cold. 

Rose  Count  Otto  from  the  feast, 

As  entered  the  hall  the  hoary  priest. 

A.  stalwart  warrior,  well  I  ween. 

That  hoary  priest  in  his  youth  had  been  ; 

But  the  might  of  his  manhood  he  had  given 

To  peace  and  prayer,  the  Church  and  Heaven. 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  45 

For  he  had  travelled  o'er  land  and  wave ; 

He  had  kneeled  on  many  a  martyr's  grave  ; 

He  had  prayed  in  the  meek  St.  Jerome's  cell, 

And  had  tasted  St.  Anthony's  blessed  well. 

And  reliques  round  his  neck  had  he, 

Each  worth  a  haughty  kingdom's  fee — 

Scrapings  of  bones,  and  points  of  spears, 

And  vials  of  authentic  tears — 

From  a  prophet's  coffin  a  hallowed  nail. 

And  a  precious  shred  of  our  Lady's  veil ; 

And  therefore  at  his  awful  tread, 

The  powers  of  darkness  shrank  with  dread ; 

And  Satan  felt  that  no  disguise 

Could  hide  him  from  those  chastened  eyes. 

He  looked  on  the  bridegroom,  he  looked  on  the  bride, 

The  young  Count  smiled,  but  the  old  priest  sighed. 

"  Fields  with  the  father  I  have  won  ; 
I  am  come  in  my  cowl  to  bless  the  son  ; 
Count  Otto,  ere  thou  bend  thy  knee, 
What  shall  the  hire  of  my  service  be?" 

"  Greedy  hawk  must  gorge  his  prey. 
Pious  priest  must  win  his  pay  ; 
Name  the  guerdon,  and  so  to  the  task : 
Thine  it  is,  ere  thy  lips  can  ask." 

He  frowned  as  he  answered — "  Gold  or  gem, 
Count  Otto,  little  I  reck  of  them ; 
But  your  bride  has  skill  of  the  lute,  they  say : 
Let  her  sing  me  the  song  I  shall  name  to-day." 


46  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 


Loud  laughed  the  Count :  "  And  if  she  refuse 
The  ditty,  Sir  Priest,  thy  whim  shall  choose, 
Row  back  to  the  house  of  old  St.  Goar ; 
I  never  bid  priest  to  a  bridal  more." 

Beside  the  maiden  he  took  his  stand, 
He  gave  the  lute  to  her  trembling  hand  ; 
She  gazed  around  with  a  troubled  eye  ; 
The  guests  all  shuddered,  and  knew  not  why  ; 
It  seemed  to  them  as  if  a  gloom 
Had  shrouded  all  the  banquet  room, 
Though  over  its  boards,  and  over  its  beams. 
Sunlight  was  glowing  in  merry  streams. 

The  stern  priest  throws  an  angry  glance 
On  that  pale  creature's  countenance  ; 
Unconsciously  her  white  hand  flings 
Its  soft  touch  o'er  the  answering  strings ; 
The  good  man  starts  with  a  sudden  thrill, 
And  half  relents  from  his  purposed  will ; 
But  he  signs  the  cross  on  his  aching  brow 
And  arms  his  soul  for  its  warfare  now. 
"  Mortal  maid  or  goblin  fairy, 
Sing  me,  I  pray  thee,  an  Ave-Mary  !'* 

Suddenly  the  maiden  bent 
O'er  the  gorgeous  instrument ; 
But  of  song,  the  listeners  heard 
Only  one  wild,  mournful  word — 
"Lurley!  Lurley!" 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  47 

And  when  the  sound,  in  the  liquid  air, 

Of  that  brief  hymn  had  faded, 
Nothing  was  left  of  the  nymph  who  there 

,ror  a  year  had  iiiasqueraded  ; 
But  the  harp  in  the  midst  of  the  wide  hall  set. 

Where  her  last  strange  word  was  spoken  ! 
The  golden  frame  with  tears  was  wet, 

And  all  the  strings  were  broken ! 


/ 


THE  RED  FISHERMAN. 


"  Oh  flesli,  flesh,  how  art  thou  fishified ! 

Borneo  and  Juliet. 


The  abbot  arose,  and  closed  his  book, 

And  donned  his  sandal  shoon, 
And  wandered  forth,  alone,  to  look 

Upon  the  summer  moon  : 
A  starlight  sky  was  o'er  his  head, 

A  quiet  breeze  around  ; 
And  the  flowers  a  thrilling  fragrance  shed, 

And  the  waves  a  soothing  sound : 
It  was  not  an  hour,  nor  a  scene,  for  aught 

But  love  and  calm  delight ; 
Yet  the  holy  man  had  a  cloud  of  thought 

On  his  wrinkled  brow  that  night. 
He  gazed  on  the  river  that  gurgled  by. 

But  he  thought  not  of  the  reeds  : 
He  clasped  his  gilded  rosary, 

But  he  did  not  tell  the  beads ; 
If  he  looked  to  the  heaven,  'twas  not  to  invoke 

The  Spirit  that  dwelleth  there  ; 
If  he  opened  his  lips,  the  words  they  spoke 

Had  never  the  tone  of  prayer. 


THK    RED     FISHERMAN.  49 

A  pious  priest  might  the  abbot  seem, 

He  had  swayed  the  crosier  well ; 
But  what  was  the  theme  of  the  abbot's  dream, 

The  abbot  were  loth  to  tell. 

Companionless,  for  a  mile  or  more, 

He  traced  the  windings  of  the  shore. 

Oh,  beauteous  is  that  river  still. 

As  it  winds  by  many  a  sloping  hill, 

And  many  a  diin^o'erarching  grove, 

And  many  a  flat  and  sunny  cove, 

And  terraced  lawns,  whose  bright  arcades 

The  honeysuckle  sweetly  shades. 

And  rocks,  whose  very  crags  seemed  bowers, 

So  gay  they  are  with  grass  and  flowers ! 

But  the  abbot  was  thinking  of  sceneiy. 

About  as  much  in  sooth. 
As  a  lover  thinks  of  constancy. 

Or  an  advocate  of  truth. 
Pie  did  not  mark. how  the  skies  in  wrath 

Grew  dark  above  his  head ; 
He  did  not  mark  how  the  mossy  path 

Grew  damp  beneath  his  tread  ; 
And  nearer  he  came,  and  still  more  near. 

To  a  pool,  in  whose  recess 
The  water  had  slept  for  many  a  year, 

Unchanged  and  motionless; 
From  the  river  stream  it  spread  away 

The  space  of  a  half  a  rood  ; 
The  surface  had  the  hue  of  clay 

And  the  scent  of  human  blood ;  * 


50  THE    RED     FISHERMAN. 

The  trees  and  the  herbs  that  round  it  grew 

Were  venomous  and  foul ; 
And  the  birds  that  through  the  bushes  flew 

Were  the  vulture  and  the  owl ; 
The  water  was  as  dark  and  rank 

As  ever  a  Company  pumped  ; 
And  the  perch,  that  was  netted  and  laid  on  the  bank, 

Grew  rotten  while  it  jumped : 
And  bold  was  he  who  thither  came 

At  midnight,  man  or  boy  ; 
For  the  place  was  cursed  with  an  evil  name, 

And  that  name  was  "  The  Devil's  Decoy  !" 

The  abbot  was  weary  as  abbot  could  be. 
And  he  sat  down  to  rest  on  the  stump  -of  a  tree . 
When  suddenly  rose  a  dismal  tone — 
Was  it  a  song,  or  was  it  a  moan  ? 
"Oh,  oh!  Oh,  oh! 
Above,  below  ! 
Lightly  and  brightly  they  glide  and  go  ; 
The  hungry  and  keen  on  the  top  are  leaping. 
The  lazy  and  fat  in  the  depths  are  sleeping  ; 
Fishing  is  fine  when  the  pool  is  muddy. 
Broiling  is  rich  when  the  coals  are  ruddy  !" 
In  a  monstrous  fright,  by  the  murky  light. 
He  looked  to  the  left  and  he  looked  to  the  ri^ht. 
And  what  was  the  vision  close  before  him, 
That  flung  such  a  sudden  stupor  o'er  him  ? 
'Twas  a  sight  to  make  the  hair  uprise, 

And  the  life-blood  colder  run: 
The  startled  priest  struck  both  his  thighs. 

And' the  abbcv  clock  struck  one  ! 


THE     RED     FISHERMAN.  51 

All  alone,  by  the  side  of  the  pool, 

A  tall  man  sat  on  a  three-legged  stool, 

Kicking  his  heels  on  the  dewy  sod, 

And  putting  in  order  his  reel  and  rod , 

Red  were  the  rags  his  shoulders  wore. 

And  a  high  red  cap  on  his  head  he  bore ; 

His  arms  and  his  legs  were  long  and  bare ; 

And  two  or  three  locks  of  long  red  hair 

Were  tossing  about  his  scraggy  neck. 

Like  a  tattered  flag  o'er  a  splitting  wreck. 

It  might  be  Time,  or  it  might  be  trouble, 

Had  bent  that  stout  back  nearly  double — 

Sunk  in  their  deep  and  hollow  sockets 

That  blazing  couple  of  Congreve  rockets. 

And  shrunk  and  shrivelled  that  tawny  skin. 

Till  it  hardly  covered  the  bones  within. 

The  line  the  abbot  saw  him  throw 

Had  been  fashioned  and  formed  long  ages  ago, 

And  the  hands  that  woi-ked  his  foreign  vest 

Long  ages  ago  had  gone  to  their  rest : 

You  would  have  sworn,  as  you  looked  on  them. 

He  had  fished  in  the  flood  with  Ham  and  Shera ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 

Minnow  or  gentle,  worm  or  fly — 

It  seemed  not  such  to  the  abbot's  eye  ; 

Gaily  it  glittered  with  jewel  and  gem. 

And  its  shape  was  the  shape  of  a  diadem. 

It  was  fastened  a  gleaming  hook  about. 

By  a  chain  within  and  a  chain  without ; 


52  THE     RED     FISHERMAN. 

The  fisherman  gave  it  a  kick  and  a  spm, 
And  the  water  fizzed  as  it  tumbled  in  ! 

From  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
Strange  and  varied  sounds  had  birth — 
Now  the  battle's  bursting  peal, 
Neigh  of  steed,  and  clang  of  steel ; 
Now  an  old  man's  hollow  groan 
Echoed  from  the  dungeon  stone ; 
Now  the  weak  and  wailing  cry 
Of  a  stripling's  agony  ! 

Cold  by  this  was  the  midnight  air  ; 

But  the  abbot's  blood  ran  coldei:^ 
When  he  saw  a  gasping  knight  lie  there. 
With  a  gash  beneath  his  clotted  hair, 

And  a  hump  upon  his  shoulder. 
And  the  loyal  churchman  strove  in  vain 

To  mutter  a  Pater  Noster  ; 
For  he  who  writhed  in  mortal  pain 
Was  camped  that  night  on  Bosworth  plain — 

The  cruel  Duke  of  Glo'ster ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 

It  was  a  haunch  of  princely  size, 

Filling  vrith  fragrance  earth  and  skies. 

The  corpulent  abbot  knew  full  well 

The  swelling  form,  and  the  steaming  smell ; 

Never  a  monk  that  wore  a  hood 

Could  better  have  guessed  the  very  wood 


THE     RED     FISHERMAN.  53 

Where  the  noble  hart  had  stood  at  bay, 
Weary  and  wounded,  at  close  of  day. 

Sounded  then  the  noisy  glee 
Of  a  revelling  company — 
Sprightly  story,  wicked  jest. 
Rated  servant,  greeted  guest 
Flow  of  wine,  and  flight  of  cork : 
Stroke  of  knife,  and  thrust  of  fork : 
But,  where'er  the  board  was  spread, 
Grace,  I  ween,  was  never  said ! 

Pulling  and  tugging  the  fisherman  sat ; 

And  the  priest  was  ready  to  vomit. 
When  he  hauled  out  a  gentleman,  fine  and  iat, 
With  a  belly  as  big  as  a  brimming  vat, 

And  a  nose  as  red  as  a  comet. 
"  A  capital  stew,"  the  fisherman  said, 

'•  With  cinnamon  and  sherry  !" 
And  the  abbot  turned  away  his  head. 
For  his  brother  Avas  lying  before  him  dead. 

The  mayor  of  St.  Edmond's  Bury  ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box : 

It  was  a  bundle  of  beautiful  things — 

A  peacock's  tail,  and  a  butterfly's  wings, 

A  scarlet  slipper,  an  auburn  curl, 

A  mantle  of  silk,  and  a  bracelet  of  pearl, 

And  a  packet  of  letters,  from  whose  sweet  fold 

Such  a  stream  of  delicate  odors  rolled. 


54  THE     RED     riS  HERMAN. 

That  the  abbot  fell  on  his  face,  and  fainted, 
And  deemed  his  spirit  was  half-way  sainted. 

Sounds  seemed  .di'opping  from  the  skies, 
Stifled  whispers,  smothered  sighs, 
And  the  breath  of  vernal  gales, 
And  the  voice  of  nightingales : 
But  the  nightingales  were  mute, 
Envious,  when  an  unseen  lute 
Shaped  the  music  of  its  chords 
Into  passion's  thrilling  words  : 

"  Smile,  lady,  smile ! — I  will  not  set 
Upon  ray  brow  the  coronet. 
Till  thou  wilt  gather  roses  white 
To  wear  around  its  gems  of  light. 
Smile,  lady,  smile ! — I  will  not  see 
Rivers  and  Hastings  bend  the  knee, 
Till  those  bewitching  lips  of  thine 
Will  bid  me  rise  in  bliss  from  mine. 
Smile,  lady,  smile! — for  who  would  win 
A  loveless  throne  through  guilt  and  sin? 
Or  who  would  reign  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
If  woman's  heart  were  rebel  still  ?" 

One  jerk,  and  there  a  lady  lay, 

A  lady  wondrous  fair ; 
But  the  rose  of  her  lip  had  faded  away. 
And  her  cheek  was  as  white  and  as  cold  as  clay, 

And  torn  was  her  raven  hair. 
"Ah,  ah  !"  said  the  fisher,  in  merry  guise, 


TUE     A ED     FISHERMAN. 

"  Her  gallant  was  hooked  before;" 
And  the  abbot  heaved  some  piteous  sighs, 
For  oft  he  had  blessed  those  deep  blue  eyes, 
The  eyes  of  Mistress  Shore  ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 
As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 
Many  the  cunning  sportsman  tried, 
Many  he  flung  with  a  frown  aside ; 
A  mmstrel's  harp,  and  a  miser's  chest, 
A  hermit's  cowl,  and  a  baron's  crest, 
-Jewels  of  lustre,  robes  of  price, 
Tomes  of  heresy,  loaded  dice. 
And  golden  cups  of  the  brightest  wine 
That  ever  was  pressed  from  the  Burgundy  vine ; 
There  was  a  perfume  of  sulphur  and  nitre. 
As  he  came  at  last  to  a  bishop's  mitre  ! 
From  top  to  toe  the  abbot  shook, 
As  the  fisherman  armed  his  golden  hook  ; 
And  awfully  were  his  features  wrought 
By  some  dark  dream  or  wakened  thought. 
Look  how  the  fearful  felon  gazes 
On  the  scaffold  his  country's  vengeance  raises^ 
When  the  lips  are  cracked  and  the  jaws  are  dry 
With  the  thirst  which  only  in  death  shall  die  : 
!Mark  the  mariner's  frenzied  frown 
As  the  swaling  wherry  settles  down, 
When  peril  has  numbed  the  sense  and  will. 
Though  the  hand  and  the  foot  may  struggle  stiP 
Wilder  far  was  the  abbot's  glance. 
Deeper  flir  was  the  abbot's  trance  ; 


56  THK     BED     FISHERMAN. 

Fixed  as  a  monument,  still  as  air, 
He  bent  no  knee,  and  he  breathed  no  prayer  ; 
But  he  signed — he  knew  not  why  or  how — 
The  sign  of  the  Cross  on  his  clammy  brow. 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 
As  he  stalked  away  with  his  iron  box. 
'^  Oh,  ho  !  Oh,  ho  ! 
The  cock  doth  crow  ; 
It  is  time  for  the  fisher  to  rise  and  go. 
Fair  luck  to  the  abbot,  fair  luck  to  the  shrine ! 
He  hath  gnawed  in  twain  my  choicest  line  ; 
Let  him  swim  to  the  north,  let  him  swim  to  the  south, 
The  abbot  will  carry  my  hook  in  his  mouth  I" 

The  abbot  had  preached  for  many  years, 

With  as  clear  articulation 
As  ever  was  heard  in  the  House  of  Peers 

Against  Emancipation  ; 
His  words  had  made  battalions  quake, 

Had  roused  the  zeal  of  martyrs ; 
He  kept  the  court  an  hour  awake, 

And  the  king  himself  three  quarters ; 
But  ever,  from  that  hour,  'tis  said. 

He  stammered  and  he  stuttered. 
As  if  an  axe  went  through  his  head 

With  every  word  he  uttered. 
He  stuttered  o'er  blessing,  he  stuttered  o'er  ban. 

He  stuttered,  drunk  or  dry  ; 
And  none  but  he  and  the  fisherman 

Could  tell  the  reason  why  ! 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  Hx\UNTED  TREE. 

"  Deep  is  the  bliss  of  the  belted  knight, 

When  he  kisses  at  dawn  the  silken  glove, 
And  rides,  in  his  glittering  armor  dight, 
To  shiver  a  lance  for  his  Lady-love ! 

"  Lightly  he  couches  the  beaming  spear ; 
His  mistress  sits  with  her  maidens  by. 
Watching  the  speed  of  his  swift  career, 

With  a  whispered  prayer  and  a  murmured  sigh. 

"  Far  from  me  is  the  gazing  throng, 

The  blazoned  shield,  and  the  nodding  plume; 
Nothing  is  mine  but  a  worthless  song, 
A  joyless  life,  and  a  nameless  tomb." 

"Nay,  dearest  W'ilfrid,  lay  like  this- 
On  such  an  eve  is  much  amiss : 
Our  mirth  beneath  the  new  May  moon 
Should  be  echoed  by  a  livelier  tune. 
W^hat  need  to  thee  of  mail  and  crest, 
Of  foot  in  stirrup,  spear  in  rest? 
Over  far  mountains  and  deep  seas, 
Earth  hath  no  fairer  fields  than  these  j 


58  LEGEND     OF     THE     HAUNTED     TREE, 

And  who,  in  Beauty's  gaudiest  bowers, 
Can  love  thee  with  more  love  than  oursi" 


The  minstrel  turned  with  a  moody  look 

From  that  sweet  scene  of  guiltless  glee ; 
From  the  old  who  talked  beside  the  brook, 

And  the  young  who  danced  beneath  the  tree : 
Coldly  he  shrank  from  the  gentle  maid, 

Fi'om  the  chiding  look  and  the  pleading  tone ; 
And  he  passed  from  the  old  elm's  hoary  shade. 

And  followed  the  forest  path  alone. 
One  little  sigh,  one  pettish  glance, 

And  the  girl  comes  back  to  her  playmates  now, 
And  takes  her  place  in  the  merry  dance. 

With  a  slower  step  and  a  sadder  brow. 

"  My  soul  is  sick,"  saith  the  wayward  boy, 

"  Of  the  peasant's  grief,  and  the  peasant's  joy  ; 

I  cannot  breathe  on  from  day  to  day, 

Like  the  insects  which  our  wise  men  say 

In  the  crevice  of  the  cold  rock  dwell. 

Till  their  shape  is  the  shaj^e  of  their  dungeon's  cell ; 

In  the  dull  repose  of  our  changeless  life, 

I  long  for  passion,  I  long  for  strife. 

As  in  the  calm  the  mariner  sighs 

For  rushing  waves  and  groaning  skies. 

Oh  for  the  lists,  the  lists  of  fame ! 

Oh  for  the  herald's  glad  acclaim  ; 

For  floating  pennon  and  prancing  steed. 

And  Beauty's  wonder  at  Manhood's  deed  !" 


LEGEND     OF     THE     HAUNTED     TREE.  59 

Beneath  an  ancient  oak  he  lay  ; 

More  years  than  man  can  count,  they  say, 

On  the  verge  of  the  dim  and  solemn  wood, 

Through  sunshine  and  storm,  that  oak  had  stood. 

Many  a  loving,  laughing  sprite, 

Tended  the  branches  by  day  "and  by  night ; 

And  the  leaves  of  its  age  were  as  fresh  and  green 

As  the  leaves  of  its  early  youth  had  been. 

Pure  of  thought  should  the  mortal  be 

Who  sleeps  beneath  the  Haunted  Tree  ; 

That  night  the  minstrel  laid  him  down 

Ere  his  brow  relaxed  its  sullen  frown  ; 

And  Slumber  had  bound  its  eyelids  fast, 

Ere  the  evil  wish  from  his  soul  had  passed. 

And  a  song  on  the  sleeper's  ear  descended, 

A  song  it  was  pain  to  hear,  and  pleasure, 
So  strangely  wrath  and  love  were  blended 

In  every  tone  of  the  mystic  measure. 

"  I  know  thee,  child  of  earth  ; 

The  morning  of  thy  birth 
In  through  the  lattice  did  my  chariot  glide  ; 

I  saw  thy  father  weep 

Over  thy  first  wild  sleep, 
I  rocked  thy  cradle  when  thy  mother  died. 

"  And  I  have  seen  thee  gaze 

Upon  these  birks  and  braes, 
Which  are  my  kingdoms,  with  irreverent  sconi ; 

And  heard  thee  pour  repi'oof 

Upon  the  vine-clad  roof, 
Beneath  whose  peaceful  shelter  thou  wert  born. 


60     LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE. 

"  I  bind  thee  in  the  snare 

Of  thine  unholy  prayer  ; 
I  seal  thy  forehead  with  a  viewless  seal : 

I  give  into  thine  hand 

The  buckler  and  the  brand, 
And  clasp  the  golden  spur  upon  thy  heel. 
"  When  thou  hast  made  thee  wise 

In  the  sad  lore  of  sighs, 
When  the  world's  visions  fail  thee  and  forsake, 

Eeturn,  return  to  me, 

And  to  my  haunted  tree  ; 
The  charm  hath  bound  thee  now ;  Sir  Knight,  awake  !'* 

Sir  Isumbras,  in  doubt  and  dread. 

Prom  his  feverish  sleep  awoke^ 
And  started  up  from  his  grassy  bed 

Under,  the  ancient  oak. 
And  he  called  the  page  who  held  his  spear, 

And,  "  Tell  me,  boy,"  quoth  he, 
"  How  long  have  I  been  slumbering  here, 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree  ?" — 
"  Ere  thou  didst  sleep,  I  chanced  to  throw 

A  stone  into  the  rill ; 
And  the  ripple  that  disturbed  its  flow 

Is  on  its  surface  still ; 
Ere  thou  didst  sleep,  thou  bad'st  me  sing 

King  Arthur's  favorite  lay ; 
And  the  first  echo  of  the  string 

Has  hardly  died  away." 

"  How  strange  is  sleep  !"  the  young  knight  said, 
As  he  clasped  the  helm  upon  his  head, 


LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUXTED  TREE.     61 

And,  mounting  again  his  courser  black, 

To  his  gloomy  tower  rode  slowly  back  : 
"  How  strange  is  sleep  !  when  his  dark  spell  lies 
On  the  drowsy  lids  of  human  eyes. 
The  years  of  a  life  will  float  along 
In  the  compass  of  a  page's  song. 
Methought  I  lived  in  a  pleasant  vale, 
The  haunt  of  the  lark  and  the  nightingale, 
Where  the  summer  rose  had  a  brighter  hue, 
And  the  noon-day  sky  a  clearer  blue. 
And  the  spirit  of  man  in  age  and  youth 
A  fonder  love,  and  a  firmer  truth. 
And  I  lived  on,  a  fair-haired  boy, 
In  that  sweet  vale  of  tranquil  joy  ; 

Until  at  last  my  vain  caprice 

Grew  weary  of  its  bliss  and  peace. 
And  one  there  was,  most  dear  and  fair, 
Of  all  that  smiled  around  me  there — 
A  gentle  maid,  with  a  cloudiest  face, 
And  a  form  so  full  of  fairy  grace ; 
Who,  when  I  turned  with  scornful  spleen 
From  the  feast  in  the  bower,  or  the  dance  on  the  green, 
Would  humor  all  my  waywai'd  will 
And  love  me  and  forgive  me  still. 
Even  now,  methinks,  her  smile  of  light 
Is  there  before  me,  mild  and  bright ; 
And  I  hear  her  voice  of  fond  reproof, 
Between  the  beats  of  my  palfrey's  hoof. 
'T  is  idle  all :  but  I  could  weep  ; — 
Alas  !"  said  the  knight,  "  how  strange  is  sleep  !" 


62  LEGEND     OF     THE     HAUNTED     TREE. 

He  struck  with  his  spear  the  brazen  plate 

That  hung  before  the  castle  gate  ; 

The  torch  threw  hish  its  waves  of  flame 

As  forth  the  watchful  menials  came; 

They  lighted  the  way  to  the  banquet  hall, 

They  hung  the  shield  upon  the  wall, 

They  spread  the  board,  and  they  filled  the  bowl. 

And  the  phantoms  passed  from  his  troubled  soul. 

Sir  Isumbras  was  ever  found 

Where  blows  were  struck  for  glory  ; 
There  sate  not  at  the  Table  Bound 

A  l\night  more  famed  in  story  : 
The  kins;  on  his  throne  would  turn  about 

To  see  his  courser  prancing; 
And,  when  Sir  Launcelot  was  out, 

The  queen  would  praise  his  dancing; 
He  quite  wore  out  his  father's  spurs, 

Performing  valor's  duties — 
Destroying  mighty  sorcerers, 

Avenging  injured  beauties, 
And  crossmg  many  a  trackless  sand, 

And  rescuing  people's  daughters 
From  dragons  that  infest  the  land. 

And  whales  that  walk  the  waters. 
He  throttled  lions  by  the  score. 

And  giants  by  the  dozen; 
And,  for  his  skill  in  lettered  lore, 

Thoy  called  him  "  Merlin's  Cousin." 


LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.     03 

A  score  of  steeds,  with  bit  and  rein, 

Stood  ready  in  his  stable ; 
An  ox  was  every  morning  slain. 

And  roasted  for  his  table. 
And  he  had  friends,  all  brave  and  tall, 

And  crowned  with  praise  and  laurel. 
Who  kindly  feasted  in  his  hall. 

And  tilted  in  his  quarrel ; 
And  minstrels  came  and  sang  his  fame 

In  very  rugged  verses  ; 
And  they  w^ere  paid  with  wine  and  game, 

And  rings,  and  cups,  and  purses. 

And  he  loved  a  Lady  of  high  degree. 

Faith's  fortress,  Beauty's  flower  ; 
A  countess  for  her  maid  had  she. 
And  a  kingdom  for  her  dower  ; 
And  a  brow  whose  frowns  were  vastly  grand, 

And  an  eye  of  sunlit  brightness. 
And  a  swan-like  neck,  and  an  arm  and  hand 

Of  most  bewitching  whiteness ; 
And  a  voice  of  music,  whose  sweet  tones 

Could  most  divinely  prattle 
Of  battered  casques,  and  broken  bones, 

And  all  the  bliss  of  battle. 
He  wore  her  scarf  in  many  a  fray. 

He  trained  her  hawks  and  ponies, 
And  filled  her  kitchen  every  day 
With  leverets  and  conies ; 


♦54  LEGEND      OF     THE     HAUNTED     TREE. 

He  loved,  and  he  was  loved  again  : — 
I  won't  waste  time  in  proving, 

There  is  no  pleasure  like  the  pain 
Of  being  loved,  and  loving. 

Dame  Fortune  is  a  fickle  gipsy, 
And  always  blind,  and  often  tipsy  ; 
Sometimes,  for  years  and  years  together, 
She'll  bless  you  with  the  sunniest  weather, 
Bestowing  honor,  pudding,  pence. 
You  can't  imagine  why  or  whence; — • 
Then  in  a  moment — Presto,  Pass  ! — 
Your  joys  are  withered  like  the  grass ; 
You  find  your  constitution  vanish. 
Almost  as  quickly  as  the  Spanish ; 
The  murrain  spoils  your  flocks  and*fieeces  ; 
The  dry-rot  pulls  your  house  to  pieces  ; 
Your  garden  raises  only  weeds ; 
Your  agent  steals  your  title-deeds  ; 
Your  banker's  failure  stuns  the  city  ; 
Your  father's  will  makes  Sugden  witty ; 
Your  daughter,  in  her  beauty's  bloom, 
Goes  off  to  Gretna  with  the  groom  ; 
And  you,  good  man,  are  left  alone. 
To  battle  with  the  gout  and  stone. 

Ere  long.  Sir  Isumbras  began 
To  be  a  sad  and  thoughtful  man  : 
They  said  the  glance  of  an  evil  eye 
Had  been  on  the  knight's  prosperity : 


LEGEND     OF     THE     HAUXTED     TREE.  65 

Less  swift  on  the  quarry  his  falcon  went, 

Less  true  was  his  hound  on  the  wild  deer's  scent, 

And  thrice  in  the  list  he  came  to  the  earth, 

By  the  luckless  chance  of  a  broken  girth. 

And  Poverty  soon  in  her  rags  was  seen 

At  the  board  where  Plenty  erst  had  been ; 

And  the  guests  smiled  not  as  they  smiled  before, 

And  the  song  of  the  minstrel  was  heard  no  more  ; 

And  a  base  ingrate,  who  was  his  foe, 

Because,  a  little  month  ago, 

He  had  cut  him  down,  with  friendly  ardor. 

From  a  rusty  hook  in  an  Ogre's  larder, 

Invented  an  atrocious  fable, 

And  libelled  his  fame  at  the  Royal  Table  : 

And  she  at  last,  the  worshipped  one. 

For  whom  his  valorous  deeds  were  done. 

Who  had  heard  his  vows,  and  worn  his  jewels. 

And  made  him  fight  so  many  duels — ' 

She,  too,  when  Fate's  relentless  wheel 

Deprived  him  of  the  Privy  Seal, 

Bestowed  her  smiles  upon  another, 

And  gave  his  letters  to  her  mother. 

Fortune  and  Fame — he  had  seen  them  depart, 

With  a  silent  pride  of  a  valiant  heart : 

Traitorous  friends — he  had  passed  them  by, 

With  a  haughty  brow  and  a  stifled  sigh. 

Boundless  and  black  might  roll  the  sea. 

O'er  which  the  course  of  his  bark  must  bo ; 

But  he  saw,  thro'  the  storms  that  frowned  above, ' 

One  guiding  star,  and  its  light  was  Love. 


6G     LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE. 

Now  all  was  dark  ;  the  doom  was  spoken ! 
His  wealth  all  spent,  and  his  heart  half-broken  ; 
Poor  youth  !  he  had  no  earthly  hope, 
Except  in  laudanum,  or  a  rope. 

He  ordered  out  his  horse,  and  tried, 
As  the  Leech  advised,  a  gentle  ride. 

A  pleasant  path  he  took, 
"Where  the  turf,  all  Ijright  with  the  April  showers, 
Was  spangled  with  a  hundred  flowei-s, 

Beside  a  murmuring  brook. 
Never  before  had  he  roved  that  way ; 
And  now,  on  a  sunny  first  of  May, 
He  chose  the  turning,  you  may  guess. 
Not  for  the  laughing  loveliness 
Of  turf,  or  flower,  or  stream  ;  but  only 
Because  it  looked  extremely  lonely. 

He  had  wandered,  musing,  scarce  a  mile, 

In  his  melancholy  mood, 
When,  peeping  o'er  a  rustic  stile. 
He  saw  a  little  village  smile. 

Embowered  in  thick  wood. 
There  were  small  cottages,  arrayed 
In  the  delicate  jasmine's  fragrant  shade  ; 
And  gardens,  whence  the  rose's  bloom 
Loaded  the  gale  with  rich  perfume  ; 
And  there  were  happy  hearts  ;  for  all 
In  that  bright  nook  kept  festival, 
And  welcomed  in  the  merry  May, 
With  banquet  and  with  roundelay 


LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.     67 

Sir  Isumbras  sate  gazing  there, 
With  folded  arms,  and  mournful  air ; 
He  fancied — 'twas  an  idle  whim — 
That  the  village  looked  like  a  home  to  him. 

And  now  a  gentle  maiden  came, 
Leaving  her  sisters  and  their  game, 

And  wandered  up  the  vale ; 
Sir  Isumbras  had  never  seen 
A  thing  so  fair — except  the  Queen  ; — 
But  out  on  Passion's  doubts  and  fears  ! 
Her  beautiful  eyes  were  full  of  tears, 

And  her  cheeks  were  wan  and  pale. 
None  courted  her  stay  of  the  joyous  throng. 

As  she  passed  from  the  group  alone  ; 
And  he  listened,  which  was  verv  wrona;. 
And  heard  her  singing  a  lively  song, 

In  a  very  dismal  tone  : 

"  Deep  is  the  bliss  of  the  belted  knight. 

When  he  kisses  at  dawn  the  silken  glove, 
And  goes,  in  his  glittering  armor  dight, 
To  shiver  a-  lance  for  his  Lady-love  !" 

That  thrilling  voice,  so  soft  and  clear — • 

Was  it  familiar  to  his  ear  % 

And  those  delicious  droopiv^g  eyes. 

As  blue  and  as  pure  as  the  summer,skies — 

ILad  he,  indeed,  in  other  days. 

Been  blessed  in  the  light  of  their  holy  rays? 


68  LEGEND     OF     THE     HAUKTED     TREE. 

He  knew  not ;  but  his  knee  he  bent 

Before  her  in  most  knightly  fashion, 
And  grew  superbly  eloquent 

About  her  beauty,  and  his  passion. 
He  said  that  she  was  very  fair, 

And  that  she  warbled  like  a  linnet ; 
And  that  he  loved  her,  though  he  ne'er 

Had  looked  upon  her  till  that  minute. 
He  grieved  to  mention  that  a  Jev/ 

Had  seized  for  debt  his  grand  pavilion  ; 
And  he  had  little  now,  'twas  true. 

To  offer,  but  a  heart  and  pillion  : 
But  what  was  wealth  1     In  many  a  fight — 

Though  he,  who  shouldn't  say  it,  said  it — 
He  still  had  borne  him  like  a  knight, 

And  had  his  share  of  blows  and  credit ; 
And  if  she  would  but  condescend 

To  meet  him  at  the  Priest's  to-morrow, 
And  be  henceforth  his  guide,  his  friend, 

In  every  toil,  in  every  sorrow. 
They'd  sail  instanter  from  the  Downs; 

Plis  hands  just  now  were  quite  at  leisure ; 
And,  if  she  fancied  foreign  crowns, 

He'd  win  thern  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 

"  A  year  is  gone  " — the  damsel  sighed, 

But  blushed  not,  as  she  so  replied — ■ 
"  Since  one  I  loved — alas !  how  well 

He  knew  not,  knows  not — left  our  dell. 

Time  brings  to  his  deserted  cot 

No  tidings  of  his  after  lot ; 


LEGEND     OF     THE     HAUNTED     TREE.  69 

But  his  weal  or  wo  is. still  the  theme 

Of  my  daily  thought  and  my  nightly  dream. 

Poor  Alice  is  not  proud  or  coy  ; 

But  her  heart  is  with  her  minstrel  boy." 

Away  from  his  arms  the  damsel  bounded, 

And  left  him  more  and  more  confounded. 

He  mused  of  the  present,  he  mused  of  the  past, 

And  he  felt  that  a  spell  was  o'er  him  cast ; 

He  shed  hot  tears,  he  knew  not  why, 

And  talked  to  himself  and  made  reply. 

Till  a  calm  o'er  his  troubled  senses  crept, 

And,  as  the  daylight  waned,  he  slept. 

Poor  gentleman  ! — I  need  not  say. 

Beneath  an  ancient  oak  he  lay. 

"  He  is  welcome," — o'er  his  bed. 

Thus  the  beauteous  Fairy  said  : 
"  He  has  conned  the  lesson  now, 

He  has  read  the  book  of  pain : 
There  are  furrows  on  his  brow, 

I  must  make  it  smooth  again. 


■•»" 


"  Lo,  I  knock  the  spurs  away ; 
Lo,  I  loosen  belt  and  brand  ; 
Hark  !  I  hear  the  courser  neigh 
For  his  stall  in  Fairy -land. 

"  Bring  the  cap,  and  bring  the  vest, 
Buckle  on  his  sandal  shoon ; 
Fetch  his  memory  from  the  chest 
In  the  treasury  of  the  Moon. 


70  LEGEND     OF     THE     HAUNTED     TREE. 

"  I  have  taught  him  to  be  wise, 
For  a  little  maiden's  sake ; — 
Look,  he  opens  his  bright  eyes. 
Softly,  slowly  : — minstrel,  wake  !" 

The  sun  has  risen,  and  Wilfrid  is  come 

To  his  early  friends  and  his  cottage  home. 

His  hazel  eyes  and  his  locks  of  gold 

Are  just  as  they  were  in  the  time  of  old  : 

But  a  blessing  has  been  on  the  soul  within, 

For  that  is  won  from  its  secret  sin  ; 

More  loving  now,  and  worthier  love 

Of  men  below  and  of  saints  above. 

He  reins  a  steed  with  a  lordly  air. 

Which  makes  his  country  cousins  stare  : 

And  he  speaks  in  a  strange  and  courtly  phrase. 

Though  his  voice  is  the  voice  of  other  days : 

But  where  he  has  learned  to  talk  and  ride, 

He  will  tell  to  none  but  his  bonny  bride. 


THE    TROUBADOUR. 


Le  Troubadour 
Brulant  d'amour. 


CANTO    I. 


FrencJ.  Ballad. 


In  sooth  it  was  a  glorious  day 

For  vassal  and  foi'  lord, 
When  Coeur  de  Lion  had  the  sway 

In  battle  and  at  board. 
He  was  indeed  a  royal  one, 

A  Prince  of  Paladins  ; 
Hero  of  triumph  and  of  tun, 
Of  noisy  fray  and  noisy  fun, 

Broad  shoulders  and  broad  grins. 
You  might  have  looked  from  east  to  west. 

And  then  from  north  to  south, 
And  never  found  an  ampler  breast, 

Never  an  ampler  mouth, 
A  softer  tone  for  lady's  ear, 

A  daintier  lip  for  syrup, 
Or  a  ruder  grasp  for  axe  and  spear, 

Or  a  firmer  foot  in  stirrup. 


72  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

A  ponderous  thing  was  Richard's  can, 

And  so  was  Richard's  boot, 
And  Saracens  and  liquor  ran, 

Where'er  he  set  his  foot. 
So  fiddling  here,  and  fighting  there. 

And  murdering  time  and  tune, 
With  sturdy  limb,  and  listless  air, 
And  gauntleted  hand,  and  jeweled  hair. 

Half  monarch,  half  buffoon. 
He  turned  away  from  feast  to  fray, 

From  quarreling  to  quaffing, 
So  great  in  prowess  and  in  pranks, 
So  fierce  and  funny  in  the  ranks, 
y         That  Saladin  and  Soldan  said. 

Whene'er  that  mad-cap  Richard  led. 
Alia !  he  held  his  breath  for  dread, 

And  burst  his  sides  for  laughing ! 

At  court,  the  humor  of  a  king 

Is  always  voted  "  quite  the  thing ;" 

Morals  and  cloaks  are  loose  or  laced 

According  to  the  Sovereign's  taste, 

And  belles  and  banquets  both  are  drest 

Just  as  his  majesty  thinks  best. 

Of  course  in  that  delightful  age, 

When  Richard  ruled  the  roast, 
Cracking  of  craniums  was  the  rage, 

And  beauty  was  the  toast. 
Ay  !  all  was  laugh,  and  life,  and  love  ; 

And  lips  and  shrines  were  kiss'd  ; 
And  vows  were  ventured  in  the  grove, 

And  lances  in  the  list ; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  73 

And  boys  roamed  out  in  sunny  weather 
To  weave  a  wreath  and  rhyme  together  : 
While  dames,  in  silence,  and  in  satin, 
Lay  listening  to  the  soft  Frezich-Latin, 
And  flung  their  sashes  and  their  sighs 
From  odor-breathing  balconies. 

From  those  bright  days  of  love  and  glory, 

I  take  the  hero  of  my  story. 

A  wandering  Troubadour  was  he  ; 

He  bore  a  name  of  high  degree, 

And  learned  betimes  to  slay  and  sue, 

As  knights  of  high  degree  should  do. 

While  vigor  nerved  his  buoyant  arm. 

And  youth  was  his  to  chea,t  and  charm, 

Being  immensely  fond  of  dancing, 

And  somewhat  given  to  romancmg, 

He  roamed  about  through  towers  and  towns. 

Apostrophizing  smiles  and  frowns, 

Singing  sweet  staves  to  beads  and  bonnetSj 

And  dying,  day  by  day,  in  sonnets. 

Flippant  and  fair,  and  fool  enough. 

And  careless  where  he  met  rebuff, 

Poco-curante  in  all  cases 

Of  furious  foes,  or  pretty  faces. 

With  laughing  lip,  and  jocund  eye. 

And  studied  tear,  and  practised  sigh. 

And  ready  sword,  and  ready  verse. 

And  store  of  ducats  in  his  purse, 

He  sinned  few  crimes,  loved  many  times, 

And  wrote  a  hundred  thousand  rhymes  ! 


74  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Summers  twice  eight  had  passed  away, 
Since  in  his  nurse's  arms  he  lay, 

A  rosy  roaring  child, 
While  all  around  was  noisy  mirth, 
And  logs  blazed  up  upon  the  hearth. 

And  bonfires  on  the  wild ; 
And  vassals  drank  the  brown  bowl  dry, 
And  cousins  knew  "  the  mother's  eye," 
And  wrinkled  crones  spoke  prophecy. 

And  his  brave  father  smiled. 
Summers  twice  eight  ha^  passed  away ; 
His  sire's  thin  locks  grew  very  gray  ; 
He  lost  his  song,  and  then  his  shout. 
And  seldom  saw  his  bottle  out. 
Then  all  the  menials  straight  began 
To  sorrow  for  "  the  poor  old  man," 
Took  thought  about  his  shirts  and  shoe-ties, 
And  pestered  him  with  loves  and  duties : 
Young  Roger  laced  a  crimson  row 
Of  cushions  on  his  saddle-bow  ; 
Red  Wyke  at  Christmas  mingled  up 
More  sugar  in  the  wassail-cup  ; 
Fair  INIargai'et  laid  finer  sheets  ; 
Fat  Catharine  served  richer  sweets  j 
And  all,  from  scullion  up  to  squire. 
Who  stirred  his  cup  or  kitchen  fire, 
Seemed  by  their  doings  to  determine 
The  knight  should  ne'er  be  food  for  vermin. 
All  would  not  do  ;  the  knight  grew  thinner, 
And  loved  his  bed,  and  loathed  his  dinner; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  75 

And  when  he  muttered—"  Becket— beast, 
Bring  me  the  posset— and  a  priest," 
Becket  looked  grave,  and  said  "good  lack  !" 
And  went  to  ask  the  price  of  black. 

Masses  and  medicines  both  were  bought, 

Masses  and  medicines  both  were  naught ; 
Sir  Hubert's  race  was  run ; 

As  best  beseemed  a  warrior  tall. 

He  died  within  his  ancient  hall : 

And  he  was  blest  by  Father  Paul, 
And  buried  by  his  son. 

'Twere  long  to  tell  the  motley  gear, 

That  waited  on  Sir  Hubert's  bier ; 
Por  tvyenty  good  miles  round. 

Maiden  and  matron,  knave  and  knight. 
All  rode  or  ran  to  see  the  sight ; 

Yeomen  M-ith  horse  and  hound, 
Gossips  in  grief  and  grogram  clad, 
Young  warriors  galloping  like  mad. 
Priors  and  peddlers,  pigs  and  pyxes. 
Cooks,  choristers,  and  crucifixes. 
Wild  urchins  cutting  jokes  and  capers, 
And  taper  shapes,  and  shapely  tapers. 
The  mighty  barons  of  the  land 
Brought  pain  in  heart,  and  four-in-hand; 
And  village  maids,  with  looks  of  wo. 
Turned  out  their  mourning,  and  their  toe. 
The  bell  was  rung,  the  hymn  was  sung. 
On  the  oak  chest  the  dust  was  flung ; 


70  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  then,  beneath  the  chapel-stones, 
With  a  gilt  'scutcheon  o'er  his  bones, 
Escaped  from  feather-beds  and  fidget, 
Sir  Hubert  slept  with  Lady  Bridget. 

The  mob  departed  :  cold  and  cloud 
Shed  on  the  vault  their  icy  shroud. 

And  night  came  dark  and  dreary  ; 
But  there  young  Vidal  lingered  still. 
And  kept  his  fast  and  wept  his  fill, 
Though  the  wind  in  the  chapel  was  very  chill, 

And  Vidal  very  weary. 
Low  moaned  the  bell;  the  torch-light  fell 

In  fitful  and  famt  flashes ; 
And  he  lay  on  the  stones,  where  his  father's  bones 

Were  mouldering  now  to  ashes ; 
And  vowed  to  be,  on  earth  and  sea. 

Whatever  stars  shone  o'er  him, 
A  trusty  knight,  in  love  and  fight. 

As  his  father  had  been  before  him. 
Then  in.  the  silence  of  the  night 
Passionate  grief  was  his  delight ; 
He  thought  of  all  the  brave  and  fair 
Who  slept  their  shadowy  slumber  there; 
And  that  sweet  dotage  held  him  long, 
Ere  sorrow  found  her  voice  in  sono;. 


O' 


It  was  an  ancient  thing  ;  a  song 
His  heart  had  sung  in  other  years, 

When  boyhood  had  its  idle  throng 

Of  guiltless  smiles,  and  guileless  tears; 


THE     TROUBADOUE.  77 

But  never  had  its  music  seemed 

So  sweet  to  him,  as  when  to-night 
All  lorn  and  lone,  he  kneeled  and  dreamed, 

Before  the  taper's  holy  light. 
Of  many  and  mysterious  things, 
His  cradle's  early  visitings, 
The  melancholy  tones,  that  blest 
The  pillow  of  his  sinless  rest, 
The  melody,  whose  magic  numbers 
Broke  in  by  snatches  on  his  slumbers. 
When  earth  appeared  so  brightly  dim, 
And  all  was  bliss,  and  all  for  him, 
And  every  sight  and  every  sound 
Had  heaven's  own  day -light  flowing  round. 

"  My  mother's  grave,  my  mother's  grave ! 
Oh  !  dreamless  in  her  slumber  there. 
And  drowsily  the  banners  wave 

O'er  her  that  was  so  chaste  and  fair  ; 
Yea  !  love  is  dead,  and  memory  faded ! 
But  when  the  dew  is  on  the  brake, 

And  silence  sleeps  on  earth  and  sea. 
And  mourners  weep,  and  ghosts  awake, 
Oh  !  then  she  cometh  back  to  me. 
In  her  cold  beauty  darkly  shaded ! 

"  I  cannot  guess  her  face  or  form ; 
But  what  to  me  is  form  or  face  1 
I  do  not  ask  the  weary  worm 

To  give  me  back  each  buried  grace 


THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Of  glistening  eyes,  or  trailing  tresses ! 
I  only  feel  that  she  is  here, 

And  that  we  meet,  and  that  we  part ; 
And  that  I  drink  within  mine  ear, 
And  that  I  clasp  around  my  heart, 
Her  sweet  still  voice,  and  soft  caresses  ! 

"  Not  in  the  waking  thought  hy  day. 
Not  in  the  sightless  dream  by  night. 
Do  the  mild  tones  and  glances  play, 
Of  her  who  was  my  cradle's  light ! 
But  in  some  twilight  of  calm  weather, 
She  glides,  by  fancy  dimly  wrought, 

A  glittering  cloud,  a  darkling  beam, 
With  all  the  quiet  of  a  thought. 
And  all  the  passion  of  a  dream. 
Linked  in  a  golden  spell  together  !" 

Oh  !  Yidal's  very  soul  did  weep 
Whene'er  that  music,  like  a  charm, 
•   Brought  back  from  their  unlistening  sleep 
The  kissing  lip  and  clasping  arm. 
But  quiet  tears  are  worth,  to  some, 
The  richest  smiles  in  Christendom  ; 
And  Vidal,  though  in  folly's  ring 
He  seemed  so  weak  and  wild  a  thing, 
Had  yet  an  hour,  when  none  were  by, 
Ifor  reason's  thought,  and  passion's  sigh. 
And  knew  and  felt,  in  heart  and  brain. 
The  Paradise  of  buiied  pain  ! 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  79 

And  Vidal  rose  at  break  of  day, 

And  found  his  heart  unbroken ; 
And  told  his  beads,  and  went  away, 

On  a  steed  he  had  bespoken ; 
His  bonnet  he  drew  his  eyelids  o'er, 

Eor  teaj"s  were  like  to  blind  him  ; 
And  he  spurred  Sir  Guy  o'er  mount  and  moor, 
With  a  long  dull  journey  all  before, 

And  a  short  gay  squire  behind  him. 
And  the  neighborhood  much  marvel  had ; 

And  all  who  saw  did  say. 
The  weather  and  the  roads  were  bad. 
And  either  Vidal  had  run  mad, 

Or  Guy  had  run  away  ! 
Oh !  when  a  cheek  is  to  be  dried, 

All  pharmacy  is  folly  ; 
And  Vidal  knew,  for  he  had  tried. 
There's  nothing  like  a  rattling  ride 

For  curing  melancholy ! 
Three  days  he  rode  all  mad  and  mute ; 

And  when  the  sun  did  pass, 
Three  nights  he  supp'd  upon  dry  fruit. 

And  slept  upon  wet  grass. 
Beneath  an  oak,  whose  hundred  years 
Had  formed  fit  shade  for  talk  or  tears, 
On  the  fourth  day  he  lay  at  noon, 
And  put  his  gilt  guitar  in  tune  ; 

When  suddenly  swept  by, 
In  gold  and  silver  all  arrayed, 
A  most  resplendent  cavalcade  j 


80  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Baron  and  Beauty,  Knave  and  Knight, 
And  lips  of  love,  and  eyes  of  light, 

All  blended  dazzlingly. 
Ah !  all  the  world  that  day  came  out, 
With  horse  and  horn,  and  song  and  shout  j 
And  belles  and  bouquets  gayly  bloomed, 
And  all  were  proud,  and  all  perfumed, 
And  gallants,  as  the  humor  rose. 
Talked  any  nonsense  that  they  chose, 
,       And  damsel  gave  the  reins  for  fun 
Alike  to  palfrey  and  to  pun. 
It  chanced  no  lady  had  been  thrown, 
No  heir  had  cracked  his  collar-bone, 
So  pleasure  laughed  on  every  cheek, 
And  naught,  save  saddles,  dreamed  of  pique. 
And  brightest  of  that  brilliant  train, 
With  jeweled  bit,  and  gilded  rein. 
And  pommel  clothed  in  gorgeous  netting, 
And  courser  daintily  curvetting, 
Girt  round  with  gallant  Cavaliers, 
Some  deep  in  love,  and  some  in  years, 
Half  exquisites  and  half  absurds. 
All  babbling  of  their  beasts  and  birds, 
Quite  tired  of  trumpeting  and  talking, 
The  Baroness  returned  from  hawking. 


The  lady  halted ;  well  she  might ; 

For  Vidal  was  so  fair. 
You  would  have  thought  some  god  of  light 

Had  walked  to  take  the  air ; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  81 

Bare  were  both  his  delicate  hands, 

And  the  hue  on  his  cheek  was  high, 
As  woman's  when  she  understands 

Her  first  fond  lover's  sigh  ; 
And  desolate  very,  and  very  dumb. 

And  rolling  his  eyes  of  blue. 
And  rubbing  his  forehead,  and  biting  his  thumb, 

As  lyrists  and  lovers  do. 
Like  Queen  Titania's  darling  pet, 

Or  Oberon's  wickedest  elf, 
He  lay  beside  a  rivulet. 

And  looked  beside  himself; 
And  belles  full  blown,  and  beaux  full  drest, 

Stood  there  with  smirk  and  smile, 
And  many  a  finger,  and  many  a  jest, 

Were  pomted  all  the  while. 

Then  Vidal  came,  and  bent  his  knees 

Before  the  lady  there. 
And  raised  his  bonnet,  that  the  breeze 

Might  trifle  with  his  hair  ; 
And  said,  he  was  a  nameless  youth, 
Had  learned  betimes  to  tell  the  truth. 
Could  greet  a  friend,  and  grasp  a  foe. 
Could  take  a  jest,  and  give  a  blow, 
Had  no  idea  of  false  pretences. 
Had  lost  his  father,  and  his  senses. 
Was  travelling  over  land  and  sea, 
Armed  with  guitar  and  gallantry; 
And  if  her  will  found  aught  of  pleasure 
In  trifling  soul,  and  tinkbng  measure, 


4'' 


* 


S2  THETROUBADOUR. 

He  prayed  that  she  woiUd  call  her  own 
His  every  thought,  and  every  tone. 

"  Bonne  grace,  good  Mary,  and  sweet  St.  John  '" 
That  haughty  dame  did  say  ; 

"  A  goodly  quarry  I  have  won. 
In  this  our  sport  to-day  ! 
A  precious  page  is  this  of  mine, 
To  carve  my  meat  and  pour  my  wine, 
To  loose  my  greyhound's  ringing  chain, 
And  hold  my  palfrey's  gaudy  rein, 
And  tell  strange  tales  of  moody  sprites, 
Around  the  hearth,  on  winter  nights. 
Many  !  a  wilful  look,  and  wild  ! 
But  we  shall  tame  the  wayward  child. 
And  dress  his  roving  locks  demurely, 
And  tie  his  jesses  on  securely." 

She  took  fi-om  out  her  garment's  fold 
A  dazzling  gaud  of  twisted  gold ; 

She  raised  him  from  his  knee  ; 
The  diamond  cross  she  gravely  kiss'd. 
And  twined  the  links  around  his  wrist 

With  such  fine  witcherv, 
That  there  he  kneeled,  and  met  her  glance 
In  silence  and  a  moveless  trance. 
And  saw  no  sight,  and  heard  no  sound, 
And  knew  himself  more  firmly  bound 
Than  if  a  hundred  weight  of  steel 
Had  fettered  him  from  head  to  heel ! 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  83 

And  from  that  momsnt  Vidal  gave 

His  childish  fancy  up, 
Became  her  most  peculiar  slave, 
And  wore  her  scarf,  and  whipped  her  knave, 

And  filled  her  silver  cup. 
She  was  a  widow :  on  this  earth 
It  seemed  her  only  task  was  mirth ; 
She  had  no  nerves  and  no  sensations, 
No  troubling  friends  nor  poor  relations ; 
No  gnawing  grief  to  feel  a  care  for, 
No  living  soul  to  breathe  a  prayer  for. 
Ten  years  ago  her  lord  and  master 
Had  chanced  upon  a  sad  disaster ; 
One  night  his  servants  found  him  lying 
Speechless  or  senseless,  dead  or  dying, 
With  shivered  sword  and  dabbled  crest, 
And  a  small  poniard  in  his  breast, 
And  nothing  further  to  supply 
The  slightest  hint  of  how  or  why. 
As  usual,  in  such  horrid  cases. 
The  men  made  oath,  the  maids  made  faces ; 
All  thought  it  most  immensely  funny 
The  murderer  should  have  left  the  monev. 
And  showed  suspicions  in  dumb  crambo, 
And  buried  him  with  fear  and  flambeau. 


Clotilda  shrieked  and  swooned,  of  course. 

Grew  very  ill,  and  very  hoarse. 

Put  on  a  veil,  put  off  a  rout. 

Turned  all  her  cooks  and  courtiers  out. 


84  THETliODBADOUK. 

And  lived  two  years  on  water-gruel, 
And  drank  no  wine,  and  used  no  fuel. 
At  last,  when  all  the  world  had  seen 
How  very  virtuous  she  had  been. 
She  left  her  chamber,  dried  her  tears, 
Kept  open  house  for  Cavaliers, 
New  furnished  all  the  cob-webbed  rooms. 
And  burned  a  fortune  in  perfumes. 
She  had  seen  six-and-thirty  springs, 
And  still  her  blood's  warm  wanderings 
Told  tales  in  every  throbbing  vein 
Of  youth's  high  hope,  and  passion's  reign, 
And  dreams  from  which  that  lady's  heart 
Had  parted,  or  had  seemed  to  part. 
She  had  no  wiles  from  cunning  France, 
Too  cold  to  sing,  too  tall  to  dance ; 
But  yet,  where'er  her  footsteps  went. 
She  was  the  Queen  of  Merriment : 
She  called  the  quickest  at  the  table. 
For  Courcy's  song,  or  Comine's  fable. 
Bade  Barons  quarrel  for  her  glove. 
And  talked  with  Squires  of  ladie-love. 
And  hawked  and  hunted  in  all  weathers. 
And  stood  six  feet — including  feathers. 

Her  suitors,  men  of  swords  and  banners, 
Were  very  guarded  in  their  manners, 
And  e'en  when  heated  by  the  jorum 
Knew  the  strict  limits  of  decorum. 
Well  had  Clotilda  learned  the  glance 
That  checks  a  lover's  first  advance ; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  85 

That  brow'^to  her  was  given 
That  chills  presumption  in  its  birth, 
And  mars  the  madness  of  our  mirth, 
And  wakes  the  reptile  of  the  earth 

From  the  vision  he  hath  of  Heaven. 
And  yet  for  Vidal  she  could  find 
No  word  or  look  that  was  not  kind, 
With  him  she  walked  in  shine  or  shower, 
And  quite  forgot  the  dinner  hour. 
And  gazed  upon  him,  till  he  smiled. 
As  doth  a  mother  on  a  child. 
Oh !  when  was  dream  so  purely  dreamed ! 
A  mother  and  a  child  they  seemed : 
In  warmer  guise  he  loved  her  not ; — 

And  if,  beneath  the  stars  and  moon. 
He  lingered  in  some  lonely  spot 

To  play  her  fond  and  favorite  tune. 
And  if  he  fed  her  petted  mare. 
And  made  acquaintance  with  her  bear, 
And  kissed  her  hand  whene'er  she  gave  it 
And  kneeled  him  down,  sometimes,  to  crave  it, 
'Twas  partly  pride,  and  partly  jest, 

And  partly  'twas  a  boyish  whim. 
And  that  he  liked  to  see  the  rest 

Look  angrily  on  her  and  him. 
And  that — in  short  he  was  a  boy. 
And  doted  on  his  last  new  toy. 

It  chanced  that  late,  one  summer's  gloaming, 
The  lady  and  the  youth  were  roaming. 


85  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

In  converse  close  of  those  and  these, 
Beneath  a  long  arcade  of  trees ; 
Tall  trunks  stood  up  on  left  and  right, 
Like  columns  in  the  gloom  of  night, 
Breezeless  and  voiceless  ;  and  on  high, 
Where  those  eternal  pillars  ended. 
The  silent  boughs  so  closely  blended 
Their  mirk,  unstirring  majesty. 
That  superstition  well  might  run, 
To  wander  there  from  twelve  to  one, 
"And  call  strange  shapes  from  heaven  or  hell, 
Of  cowl  and  candle,  book  and  bell, 
And  kneel  as  in  the  vaulted  aisle 
Of  some  time-honored  Gothic  pile. 
To  pay  her  weary  worship  there 
Of  counted  beads,  and  pattered  prayer. 

Clotilda  had,  for  once,  the  vapors, 
And  when  the  stars  lit  up  their  tapers, 
She  said  that  she  was  very  weary — 
She  liked  the  place,  it  was  so  dreary — 
The  dew  was  down  on  grass  and  flower, 

'Twas  very  wet — 'twas  very  wrong — 
But  she  7nust  rest  for  half  an  hour, 

And  listen  to  another  song. 

Then  many  a  tale  did  Vidal  tell 
Of  warrior's  spear,  and  wizard's  spell ; 
How  that  Sir  Brian  le  Bleu  had  been 
Cup-bearer  to  a  fairy  queen  j 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  87 

And  how  that  a  hundred  years  did  pass, 
And  left  his  brow  as  smooth  as  glass; 
Time  on  his  form  marked  no  decay, 
He  stole  not  a  single  charm  away, 

He  could  not  blight 

That  eye  of  light, 
Nor  turn  those  raven  ringlets  gray. 

But  ^I'ian's  love  for  a  mortal  maid, 

Was  written  and  read  in  a  magic  sign, 
When  Brian  slipped  on  the  moonlight  glade, 

And  spilled  the  fairy's  odorous  wine ; 
And  she  dipped  her  fingers  in  the  can. 

And  sprinkled  him  with  seven  sprinkles. 
And  he  went  from  her  presence  a  weary  man, 

A  withering  lump  of  rheum  and  wrinkles. 

And  how  that  Satan  made  a  bond 

With  Armonell  of  Trebizond — 

A  bond  that  was  written  at  first  in  tears, 

And  torn  at  last  in  laughter — 
To  be  his  slave  for  a  thousand  years, 

And  his  sovereign  ever  after. 

And  oh !  those  years,  they  fleeted  fast, 
And  a  single  year  remained  at  last, 
A  year  for  crouching  and  for  crying, 
Between  his  frolic  and  his  frying. 

"  Toil  yet  another  toil,"  quoth  he, 
"  Or  else  thy  prey  I  will  not  be. 


88  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  servant  mine. 

And  call  me  back 

The  faded  track 
Of  years  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  !" 
And  Satan  hied  to  his  home  again 
On  the  wings  of  a  blasting  hurricane, 
And  left  old  Armonell  to  die, 
And  sleep  in  the  odor  of  sanctity. 

In  mockery  of  the  Minstrel's  skill 
The  Lady's  brow  grew  darker  still ; 

She  trembled  as  she  lay, 
And  o'er  her  face,  like  fitful  flame, 
The  feverish  color  went  and  came, 
And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  tune, 
Her  black  eyes  stared  upon  the  moon 

With  an  unearthly  ray. 

"  Good  Vidal," — as  she  spoke  she  leant 
So  wildly  o'er  the  instrument 
That  wondering  Vidal  started  back, 
For  fear  the  strings  should  go  to  wrack^ 
"  Good  Vidal,  I  have  read  and  heard 

Of  many  a  haunted  heath  and  dell. 
Where  potency  of  wand  or  word. 

Or  chanted  rhyme,  or  written  spell. 
Hath  burst,  in  such  an  hour  as  this, 

The  cerements  of  the  rotting  tomb, 
And  waked  from  wo,  or  torn  from  bliss, 

The  heritors  of  chill  and  gloom, 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  89 

Until  they  walked  upon  the  earth, 
Unshrouded,  in  a  ghastly  mirth, 
And  frightened  men  with  soundless  cries, 
And  hueless  cheeks,  and  rayless  eyes. 
Such  power  there  is ! — if  such  be  thine, 
Why,  make  to-night  that  sound  or  sign  ; 
And  while  the  vapory  sky  looks  mirk 
In  horror  at  our  midnight  work, 
We  two  will  sit  on  two  green  knolls, 
And  jest  with  unembodied  souls. 
And  mock  at  erery  moody  sprite 
That  wanders  from  his  bed  to-night." 

The  boy  jumped  up  in  vast  surprise, 
And  rvibbed  his  foi'ehead  and  his  eves, 
And  quite  unable  to  reflect. 
Made  answer  much  to  this  effect : 
"  Lady ! — the  saints  befriend  a  sinner  ! 
Lady  ! — she  drank  too  much  at  dinner ! 
I  know  a  rhyme,  and — ghosts  forsooth ! 
I  used  to  sing  it  in  my  youth  ; 
'Twas  taught  me — curse  my  foolish  vanity  ! 
By  an  old  wizard — stark  insanity ! 
Who  came  from  Tunis — 'tis  the  hock  ! 
At  a  great  age  and — twelve  o'clock  ! 
He  wore — oh.  Lord ! — a  painted  girdle. 
For  which  they  burnt  him  on  a  hurdle ; 
He  had  a  charm,  but — what  the  deuce  ! 
It  wasn't  of  the  slightest  use ; 
There's  not  a  single  ghost  that  ^cares 
For — mercy  on  me  !  how  she  stares  !" 


90  THETllOUBADOUR. 

And  then  again  he  sate  him  down, 
For  fiercer  fell  Clotilda's  frown, 
And  played,  abominably  ill. 
And  horribly  against  his  will. 

*'  Spirits,  that  walk  and  wail  to-night, 
I  feel,  I  feel  that  ye  are  near  ; 
Th^re  is  a  mist  upon  my  sight. 
There  is  a  murmur  in  mine  car. 
And  a  dark,  dark  dread 
Of  the  lonely  dead. 
Creeps  through  the  whispering  atmosphere ! 

"  Ye  hover  o'er  the  hoary  trees, 

And  the  old  oaks  stand  bereft  and  bare; 
Ye  hover  o'er  the  moonlight  seas. 

And  the  tall  masts  rot  in  the  poisoned  air ; 
Ye  gaze  on  the  gate 
Of  earthly  state. 
And  the  ban-dog  shivers  in  silence  there. 

"  Come  hither  to  me  upon  your  cloud. 
And  tell  me  of  your  bliss  or  pain. 
And  let  me  see  your  shadowy  shroud. 
And  colorless  lip,  and  bloodless  vein  ; 
Where  do  ye  dwell. 
In  iieaven  or  hell, 
And  why  do  ye  wander  on  earth  again  ? 


TIIETROUBADOUn.  91 

*'  Tell  to  me  wliere  and  how  yc  died, 
Fell  ye  in  darkness,  or  fell  ye  in  day, 
On  lorn  hill-side,  or  roaring  tide. 
In  gorgeous  feast,  or  i-ushing  fray  1 
By  bowl  or  blow,     - 
From  friend  or  foe. 
Hurried  your  angry  souls  away  1 

"  Mute  ye  come,  and  mute  ye  pass, 

Your  tale  Untold,  your  shrift  unshriven; 
But  ye  have  blighted  the  pale  grass, 

And  scared  the  ghastly  stars  from  heaven  ; 
And  guilt  hath  known 
Your  voiceless  moan. 
And  felt  that  the  blood  is  unfor^iven  !" 

He  paused ;  for  silently  and  slow 
The  lady  left  his  side  ; 

It  seemed  her  blood  had  ceased  to  flow, 

For  her  cheek  was  as  white  as  the  morning  snow, 
And  the  light  of  her  eyes  had  died. 

She  gazed  upon  some  form  of  fright — 

But  it  was  not  seen  of  Vidal's  sight : 

She  di'ank  some  sound  of  hate  or  fear — 

But  it  was  not  heard  of  Vidal's  ear ; 
"  Look  !  look  !"  she  said  ;  and  Vidal  spoke — 
"  Why  !  zounds  !  it's  nothing  but  an  oak  !" 

"  Valence  !"  she  muttered,  "  I  will  rise  ; 
Ay  !  turn  not  those  dead  orbs  on  mine ; 
Fearless  to-night  are  these  worn  eyes. 
And  nerveless  is  that  arm  of  thine. 


92  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Thrice  hast  thou  fleeted  o'er  my  path  ; 

And  I  would  hear  thy  dull  lips  say, 
Is  it  in  sorrow,  or  in  wrath, 

That  thou  dost  haunt  my  lonely  way  1 
Ay  !  frown  not !  heaven  may  blast  me  now, 

In  this  dark  hour,  in  this  cold  spot ; 
And  then — I  can  but  be  as  thou. 

And  hate  thee  still,  and  fear  thee  not  1" 
She -strode  two  steps,  and  stretched  her  hand, 
In  attitude  of  stern  command ; 
The  tremor  of  her  voice  and  tread    . 
Had  more  of  passion  than  of  dread. 
The  net  had  parted  from  her  hair. 
The  locks  fell  down  in  the  powerless  air, 
Her  frame  with  strange  convulsion  rocked — 
And  Vidal  was  intensely  shocked. 
The  lady  drew  a  long  low  sigh, 
As  if  some  voice  had  made  reply, 
Though  Vidal  could  not  catch  a  word. 
And  thought  it  horribly  absurd. 
"  Eemember  it  1 — avenging  power  ! 

I  ask  no  word,  I  need  no  sign, 
To  teach  me  of  that  withering  hour, 

That  linked  this  wasted  hand  in  thine  ! 
He  was  not  there  ! — I  deemed  him  slain — ■ 
And  thine  the  guilt — and  mine  the  pain ! 
There  are  memorials  of  that  day 
Which  time  shall  never  blot  away, 
Unheeded  prayer,  unpardoned  sin. 
And  smiles  without,  and  flames  within, 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  93 

Aud  broken  heart,  and  ruined  fame, 
And  glutted  hate,  and  dreaded  shame, 
And  late  remorse,  and  dreams,  and  fears, 
And  hitter  and  enduring  tears  !" 

She  listened  there  another  space, 
And-stirred  no  feature  of  her  face, 
Though  big  drops,  ere  she  spoke  again. 
Fell  from  her  clammy  brow  like  rain : 
At  last  she  glanced  a  wilder  stare. 
And  stamped  her  foot,  and  tore  her  hair. 
"  False  fiend  !  thou  liest,  thou  hast  lied  ! 

He  was,  what  thou  couldst  never  be — 
In  anguish  true,  in  danger  tried — 

Their  friend  to  all — my  god  to  me  ! 
He  loved — as  thou  couldst  never  love — 

Long  years — and  not,  till  then,  in  guilt ; 
Nay  !  point  not  to  the  wailing  grove, 

I  know  by  whom  the  blood  was  spilt, 
I  saw  the  tomb,  and  heard  the  knell 

And  life  to  me  was  lorn  and  blighted, 
He  died — and  vengeance  watches  well ! 

He  died — and  thou  wert  well  requited !" 

Again  she  listened  : — full  five  score 
You  might  have  counted  duly  o'er — 
And  then  she  laughed ;  so  fierce  and  shrill 
That  laughter  echoed  o'er  the  hill. 
That  Vidal  deemed  the  very  ground 
Did  shake  at  its  unearthly  sound. 


94  T  H  E     T  R.  O  U  B  A  D  O  U  R  . 

"  I  do  not  tremble  !  be  it  so  ! — 
Or  here  or  there  !  in  bliss  or  wo  ! — 
Yea !  let  it  be  !  and  we  will  meet, 

Where  never -"  and  at  Vidal's  feet 

She  sank,  as  senseless  and  as  cold 
As  if  her  death  were  two  days  old  ; 
And  Vidal,  who  an  hour  before 
Had  voted  it  a  horrid  bore, 
His  silken  sash  with  speed  milaced, 
And  bound  it  round  her  neck  and  waist, 
And  bore  her  to  her  castle-gate, 
And  never  stopped  to  rest  or  bait, 
Speeding  as  swiftly  on  his  track 
As  if  nine  fiends  were  at  his  back. 

Then  rose  from  fifty  furious  lungs 
A  Babel  of  discordant  tongues  : 
"  Jesu  !  the  Baroness  is  dead  ! — 
Shouldn't  her  Ladysliip  be  bled  ? — 
Her  fingers  are  as  cold  as  stone  ! — 
And  look  how  white  her  lips  are  grown  ! 
A  dreadful  thing  for  all  who  love  her  ! 
'Tis  ten  to  one  she  won't  recover  ! — 
Ten  1 — did  you  ever,  Mrs.  Annel 
Ten  rogues  against  one  honest  man  ! — 
How  master  Vidal  must  have  fought ! 
It's  what  I  never  should  have  thought ; 
He  seems  the  sickliest  thing  alive ; — 
They  say  he  killed  and  wounded  five  ! — 
Is  master  Vidal  killed  and  wounded  1 
I  trust  the  story  is  unfounded ! — 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  95 

I  saw  him  on  his  legs  just  now, — 

What !  sawed  his  legs  oflf?  well,  I  vow — 

Peace,  babbler,  peace !  you  see  you've  shocked  her ! 

Help  !  ho  ! — cold  water  for  the  Doctor  ! 

Her  eyes  are  open  ! — how  they  blink ! 

Why,  Doctor,  do  you  really  think, 

My  Lord,  we  never  think  at  all ; 

I'll  trouble  you  to  clear  the  Hall, 

And  check  all  tendency  to  riot. 

And  keep  the  Castle  very  quiet ; 

Let  none  but  little  Bertha  stay  ; 

And — try  to  keep  the  Triar  away  !" 

Poor  Vidal,  who,  amid  the  rout, 

Had  crept  in  cautious  silence  out, 

Keeled  to  his  chamber  in  the  staggers. 

And  thought  of  home,  and  dreamed  of  daggers. 

Day  dawned  :  the  Baroness  was  able 
To  beam  upon  the  breakfast  table, 
As  well  as  could  be  well  expected, 
Before  the  guests  were  half  collected. 
'  A  fainting  fit ; — a  thing  of  course  ; — 
In  sooth  it  might  have  ended  worse  ; 
Exceedingly  obliged  to  Vidal ; — 
Pray,  had  the  groom  repaired  her  bridle  1 
She  walked  too  late ; — it  was  a  warning ; 
And — who  was  for  the  chase  this  morning  f 

Days  past,  and  weeks  :  Clotilda's  mien 
Was  gay  as  it  before  had  been, 


96  '  THETROtJBADOUE. 

And  only  once  or  twice  her  glance 

Fell  darkly  on  his  countenance, 

And  gazed  into  his  eyes  of  blue, 

As  if  she  read  his  young  heart  through : 

At  length  she  mildly  hinted — "  Surely 

Vidal  was  looking  very  poorly — 

He  never  talked — had  parted  quite 

With  spirits,  and  with  appetite — 

She  thought  he  wanted  change  of  air, 

It  was  a  shame  to  keep  him  there — 

She  had  remarked  the  change  with  sorrow. 

And well,  he  should  set  out  to-morrow." 

The  morrow  came,  't  was  glorious  weather, 

And  all  the  household  flocked  together 

To  hold  his  stirrup  and  his  rein. 

And  say,  "  Heaven  speed !"  with  might  and  main. 

Clotilda  only  .said  "Farewell!" 

And  gave  her  hand  to  kiss  and  clasp ; 
He  thought  it  trembled,  as  it  fell 

In  silence  from  his  lip  and  grasp, 
And  yet  upon  her  cheek  and  brow' 
There  dwelt  no  flush  of  passion  now  ; 
Only  the  kind  regret  was  there 
Which  severed  friends  at  parting  wear, 
And  the  sad  smile  and  glistening  eye 
Seemed  naught  to  shun,  and  naught  defy. 

"  Farewell !"  she  said,  and  so  departed  ; 
And  Vidal  from  his  reverie  started, 
And  blessed  his  soul,  and  cleared  his  throat, 
And  crossed  his  forehead — and  the  moat. 


THETROUBADOUR.  07 


CANTO    II. 


All  milliners  who  start  from  bed 
To  gaze  upon  a  coat  of  red, 

Or  listen  to  a  drum, 
Know  very  well  the  Paphian  Queen 
Was  never  yet  at  Paphos  seen. 

That  Cupid's  all  a  hum, 
That  minstrels  forge  confounded  lies, 
About  the  Deities  and  skies. 
That  torches  all  go  out  sometimes. 
That  flowers  all  fade  except  in  rhymes, 
That  maids  are  seldom  shot  with  arrowy 
And  coaches  never  drawn  by  sparrows. 

And  yet,  fair  cousin,  do  not  deem 

That  all  is  false  which  poets  tell 
Of  Passion's  first  and  dearest  dream, 

Of  haunted  spot,  and  silent  spell. 
Of  long  low  musing,  such  as  suits 

The  terrace  on  your  own  dark  hill. 
Of  whispers  which  are  sweet  as  lutes, 

And  silence  which  is  sweeter  still ; 
Believe,  believe — for  May  shall  pass, 

And  summer  sun  and  winter  shower 
Shall  dim  the  freshness  of  the  grass. 

And  mar  the  fragrance  of  the  flower — 
Believe  it  all,  whate'er  you  hear 

Of  plighted  vow,  and  treasured  token. 
And  hues  which  only  once  appear, 

And  words  which  only  once  are  spoken, 


98  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  prayers  whose  natural  voice  is  song, 

And  schemes  that  die  in  wild  endeavor, 
And  tears  so  pleasant,  you  will  long 

To  weep  such  pleasant  tears  for  ever. 
Believe  it  all,  believe  it  all ! 

Oh !  Virtue's  frown  is  all  divine  ; 
And  Folly  hides  his  happy  thrall 

In  sneers  as  cold  and  false  as  mine  ; 
And  Reason  prates  of  wrong  and  right. 

And  marvels  hearts  can  break  or  bleed, 
And  flings  on  all  that's  warm  and  bright 

The  winter  of  his  icy  creed ; 
But  when  the  soul  has  ceased  to  glow, 

And  years  and  cares  are  coming  ftist. 
There's  nothing  like  young  love  !  no,  no  ! 

There's  nothing  like  young  love  at  last ! 

The  Convent  of  St.  Ursula 
Has  been  in  a  marvellous  fright  to-day  ; 
The  nuns  arc  all  in  a  terrible  pother 
Scolding  and  screaming  at  one  another; 
Two  or  three  pale,  and  two  or  three  red. 
Two  or  three  frightened  to  death  in  bed, 
Two  or  three  waging  a  wordy  war 
With  the  wide-eared  Saints  of  the  Calendar. 
Beads  and  lies  have  both  been  told, 
Tempers  are  hot,  and  di'shes  are  cold ; 
Celandine  rends  her  last  new  veil, 
Leonore  babbles  of  horns  and  tail ; 
Celandine  proses  of  songs  and  slips, 
Violette  blushes  and  bites  her  lips: 


T  H  E     T  R  O  U  B  A  D  O  U  R  .  99 

Oh !  what  is  the  matter,  the  matter  to-day, 

With  the  Convent  of  St.  Ursula? 

But  the  Abbess  has  made  the  chiefest  dhi, 

And  cried  the  loudest  cry  ; 
She  has  pinned  her  cap  with  a  crooked  pin, 
And  talked  of  Satan  and  talked  of  sin, 

And  set  her  coif  awry  ; 
And  she  can  never  quiet  be  ; 

But  ever  since  the  Matins, 
In  gallery  and  scullery, 
And  kitchen  and  refectory, 

She  tramps  it  in  her  pattens ; 
Oh  !  what  is  the  matter,  the  matter  to-day 
With  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula? 


Thrice  in  the  silence  of  eventicae 
A  desperate  foot  has  dared  to  climb 

Over  the  Convent  gate  ; 
Thrice  a  venturous  voice  and  lute 
Have  dared  to  wake  their  amorous  suit, 
Among  the  Convent  flowers  and  fruit, 

Abominably  late : 
And  thrice,  the  beldames  know  it  well, 
From  out  the  lattice  of  her  cell, 
To  listen  to  that  murmured  measure 
Of  life,  and  love,  and  hope,  and  pleasure. 
With  throbbing  heart  and  eyelid  wet, 
Hath  leaned  the  novice  Violctte  ; 
And  oh !  you  may  tell  from  her  mournful  gaze, 
Her  vision  hath  been  of  those  dear  days. 


100  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

When  happily  o'er  the  quiet  lawn, 

Bright  with  the  dew's  most  heavenly  sprinkles, 
She  scared  the  pheasant,  and  chased  the  fawn, 

Till  a  smile  came  o'er  her  father's  wrinkles, 
Or  stood  beside  that  water  fair, 

Where  moonlight  slept  with  a  ray  so  tender, 
That  every  star  which  glistened  there, 

Glistened,  she  thought,  with  a  double  splendor; 
And  oh !  she  loved  the  ripples'  play, 

As  to  her  feet  the  truant  rovers 
Wandered  and  went  with  a  laugh  away. 

Kissing  but  once,  like  wayward  lovers. 
And  oh  !  she  loved  the  night-wind's  moan. 

And  the  dreary  watch-dog's  lonely  yelling, 
And  the  sentinel's  unchanging  tone, 

And  the  chapel  chime  so  sadly  knelling, 
And  the  echoes  from  the  Castle  hall, 

Of  circling  song  and  noisy  gladness, 
And,  in  some  silent  interval, 

The  nightingale's  deep  voice  of  sadness. 
Alas !  there  comes  a  winter  bleak 

On  the  lightest  joy,  and  the  loveliest  flower : 
And  the  smiles  have  faded  on  Violette's  cheek. 

And  the  roses  have  withered  in  Violette's  bower, 
But  now  by  the  beautiful  turf  and  tide 

Poor  Violette's  heart  in  silence  lingers ; 
And  the  thrilling  tears  of  memory  glide 

Thro'  the  trembling  veil  and  the  quivering  fingers. 
Yet  not  for  these,  for  these  alone. 

That  innocent  heart  beats  high  to-day ; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  101 

And  not  for  these  the  stifled  moan 

Is  breathed  in  such  thick  passionate  tone, 

That  not  the  lips  appear  to  pray. 
But  you  may  deein  those  murmurs  stai't 
Forth  from  the  life-strings  of  the  heart,  ' 
So  Avild  and  strange  is  that  long  sigh, 
So  full  of  bliss  and  agony  ! 

She  thinks  of  him,  the  lovely  boy, 

Sweet  Vidal,  with  his  face  of  joy — 

The  careless  mate  of  all  the  glee 

That  shone  upon  her  infancy — 

The  baby-lover,  who  had  been 

The  sceptred  King,  where  she  was  Queen, 

On  Childhood's  dream-encircled  strand, 

The  undisputed  Fairy-land ! 

She  thinks  of  him,  she  thinks  of  him, 

The  lord  of  every  wicked  whim, 

Who  dared  Sir  Prinsamour  to  battle. 

And  drove  away  De  Clifford's  cattle, 

And  sang  an  Ave  at  the  feast, 

And  made  wry  faces  at  the  Priest, 

And  ducked  the  Duchess  in  the  sea, 

And  tore  Sir  Roland's  pedigree. 

She  thinks  of  him — the  forehead  fair, 
The  ruddy  lij^,  and  glossy  hair — 
The  mountains,  where  they  roved  together. 
In  life's  most  bright  and  witching  weather — 
The  wreck  they  Watched  upon  the  coast — 
The  ruin  where  they  saw  the  ghost — 


102  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

The  faiiy  tale  he  loved  to  tell — 

The  serenade  he  sang  so  well ; 

And  then  she  turns  and  sees  again 

The  naked  wall,  and  grated  pane, 

And  frequent  winks  and  frequent  frowns, 

And  'broidered  books,  and  'broidered  gowns, 

And  plaster  saints  and  plaster  patrons. 

And  three  impracticable  matrons. 

She  was  a  very  pretty  Nun : 

Sad,  delicate,  and  five  feet  one ; 

Her  face  was  oval,  and  her  eye 

Looked  like  the  Heaven  in  Italy, 

Serenely  blue,  and  softly  bright. 

Made  up  of  languish  and  of  light! 

And  her  neck,  except  where  the  locks  of  brown. 

Like  a  sweet  summer  mist,  fell  droopingly  down, 

Was  as  chill  and  as  white  as  the  snow,  ere  the  earth 

Has  sullied  the  hue  of  its  heavenly  birth  ; 

And  through  the  blue  veins  you  might  see 

The  pure  blood  wander  silently, 

Like  noiseless  eddies,  that  for  below 

In  the  glistening  depths  of  a  calm  lake  flow  : 

Her  cold  hands  on  her  bosom  lay ; 

And  her  ivory  crucifix,  cold  as  they. 

Was  clasped  in  a  fearful  and  fond  caress, 

As  if  she  shrank  from  its  holiness. 

And  felt  that  hers  was  the  only  guilt 

For  which  no  healing  blood  was  spilt: 

And  tears  wj3re  bursting  all  the  while  ; 

Yet  now  and  then  a  vacant  smile 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  103 

Over  hei*  lips  would  come  and  go — 

A  very  mockery  of  wo — 

A  brief,  wan  smile — a  piteous  token 

Of  a  warm  love  crush'd,  and  a  young  heart  broken ! 

"  Marry  come  up  !"  said  Celandine, 
Whose  nose  was  ruby  red, 

*'  From  venomous  cates  and  wicked  wine 
A  deadly  sin  is  bred. 
Darkness  and  anti-phlogistic  diet, 
These  will  keep  the  pulses  quit'^; 
Silence  and  solitude,  bread  and  wa  ^r — 
So  must  we  cure  our  erring  daughter .  ' 
I  have  dined  at  an  Alderman's  board, 
I  have  drunk  with  a  German  lord, 
But  richer  was  Celandine's  own  pate 
Than  Sir  William's  soup  on  Christmas  day, 
And  sweeter  the  flavor  of  Celandine's  flask 
Than  the  loveliest  cup  from  a  Rhenish  cask ! 

"  Saints  keep  us  !"  said  old  Winifi-ede, 
"  Saints  keep  and  cure  us  all  1 
And  let  us  hie  to  our  book  and  bead, 

Or  sure  the  skies  will  fall ! 
Is  she  a  Heathen  or  is  she  a  Hindoo, 
To  talk  with  a  silly  boy  out  of  the  window  ? 
W^as  ever  such  profaneness  seen  ? 
Pert  minx  ! — and  only  just  sixteen  !" 
I  have  talked  with  a  fop  who  has  fought  twelve  duels, 
Six  for  an  heiress,  and  six  for  her  jewels  ; 


104  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

I  have  prosed  with  a  reckless  bard,  who  rehearses 

Every  day  a  thousand  verses ; 

But  oh  !  more  marvellous  twenty  times 

Than  the  bully's  lies,  or  the  blockhead's  rhymes, 

Were  the  scurrilous  tales,  which  Scandal  told 

Of  Winifrede's  loves  in  th^davs  of  old  ! 


The  Abbess  lifted  up  her  eye, 

And  laid  her  rosarv  down. 
And  sigh'd  a  melancholy  sigh. 

And  frown'd  an  angry  frown. 
"  There's  a  cell  in  the  dark  cold  ground, 

Where  sinful  passions  wither  : 
Vapory  dews  lie  damp  around,  . 
And  merriment  of  sight  or  sound 

Can  work  no  passage  thither : 
Other  scene  is  there,  I  trow. 
Than  suits  a  love-sick  maiden's  vow  ; 
For  a  death-watch  makes  a  weary  tune, 
And  a  glimmering  lamp  is  a  joyless  moon, 
And  a  couch  of  stone  is  a  dismal  rest. 
And  an  aching  heart  is  a  bitter  guest ! 
Maiden  of  the  bosom  light. 
There  shall  thy  dwelling  be  to-night  j 
Mourn  and  meditate,  fast  and  yjray, 
And  drive  the  evil  one  away. 
Axe  and  cord  were  fitter  doom. 
Desolate  grave  and  mouldering  tomb; 
But  the  merciful  faith  that  speaks  the  sentence, 
Joys  in  the  dawn  of  a  soul's  repentance. 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  105 

And  the  eyes  may' shed  sweet  tears  foi*  them, 
Whom  the  hands  chastise,  and  the  lips  condemn  !" 
I  have  set  my  foot  on  the  hallowed  spot,  - 
Where  the  dungeon  of  trampled  France  is  not; 
I  have  heard  men  talk  of  Mr,  Peel ; 
I  have  seen  men  walk  on  the  Bixton  wheel ; 
And  'twere  better  to  feed  on  frogs  and  fears, 
Guarded  by  griefs  and  grenadiers, 
And  'twere  better  to  tread  all  day  and  night, 
With  a  rogue  on  the  left,  and  a  rogue  on  the  right. 
Than  lend  our  persons  or  our  purses 
To  that  old  lady's  tender  mercies  ! 


"Ay  !  work  your  will !"  the  young  girl  said  ; 
And  as  she  spoke  she  raised  her  head, 
And  for  a  moment  turned  aside, 

To  check  the  tear  she  could  not  hide ; 

"  Ay  !  work  your  will !  — I  know  you  all, 

Your  holy  aims  and  pious  arts, 
And  how  you  love  to  fling  a  pall 

On  fading  joys,  and  blighted  hearts ; 
And  if  these  quivering  lips  could  tell 

The  story  of  our  bliss  and  wo, 
And  how  we  loved — Oh !  loved,  as  well 

As  ever  mortals  loved  below — 
And  how  in  purity  and  truth 

The  flower  of  early  joy  was  nurst. 
Till  sadness  nipp'd  its  blushing  youth. 

And  holy  mummery  call'd  it  curst 


106  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

You  would  but  watch  my  sobs  and  sighs, 

With  shaking  head,  and  silent  sneers. 
And  deck  with  smiles  those  soulless  eyes, 

When  mine  should  swell  with  bitter  tears  ! 
But  work  your  will !     Oh !  life  and  limb 

May  wither  in  that  house  of  dread. 
Where  horrid  shapes  and  shadows  dim 

Walk  nightly  round  the  slumberer's  head ; 
The  sight  may  sink,  the  tongue  may  fail. 

The  shuddering  spirit  long  for  day, 
And  fear  may  make  these  features  pale. 

And  turn  these  boasted  ringlets  gray ; 
But  not  for  this,  oh !  not  for  this. 

The  heart  will  lose  its  dream  of  gladness  ; 
And  the  fond  thought  of  that  last  kiss 

Will  live  in  torture — yea  !  in  madness  ! 
And  look !     I  will  not  fear  or  feel 

The  all  your  hate  may  dare  or  do  ; 
And,  if  I  ever  pray  and  kneel, 

I  will  not  kneel  and  pray  to  you !" 

If  you  had  seen  that  tender  cheek, 

Those  eyes  of  melting  blue, 
You  would  not  have  thought  in  a  tiling  so  weak. 

Such  a  fiery  spirit  grew. 
But  the  trees  which  summer's  bi-eezes  shake. 

Are  shivered  in  winter's  gale  ; 
And  a  meek  girl's  heart  will  bear  to  break. 

When  a  proud  man's  truth  would  fail. 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  107 

Never  a  word  she  uttered  more ; 

They  have  led  }ier  down  the  stair, 
And  left  her  on  the  dungeon  floor, 

To  find  repentance  there ; 
And  naught  have  they  set  beside  her  bed, 

Within  that  chamber  dull, 
But  a  lonely  lamp,  and  a  loaf  of  bread, 

A  rosary  and  skull. 
The  breast  is  bold  that  grows  not  cold, 

With  a  strong  convulsive  twinge, 
As  the  slow  door  creeps  to  its  sullen  hold, 

Upon  its  mouldering  hinge. 
That  door  was  made  by  the  cunning  hand 
Of  an  artist  from  a  foreign  land ; 
Human  skill  and  heavenly  thunder 
Shall  not  win  its  wards  asunder. 
The  chain  is  fix'd,  and  the  bolt  is  fast, 
And  the  kind  old  Abbess  lingers  last. 
To  mutter  a  prayer  on  her  bended  knee, 
And  clasp  to  her  girdle  the  iron  key. 

But  then,  oh  then  began  to  run 

Horrible  whispers  from  nun  to  nun  : 
"  Sister  Amelia," — "  Sister  Anne," 
"  Do  tell  us  how  it  all  began ;" 
"  The  youth  was  a  handsome  youth,  that's  certain, 

For  Bertha  peeped  from  behind  the  curtain :" 
"  As  sure  as  I  have  human  eyes, 

It  was  the  devil  in  disguiso; 


108  THE      TROUBADOUR. 

His  hair  hanging  down  lil^e  threads  of  wire — 
And  his  mouth  breathing  smoke,  like  a  haystack 

on  fire — 
And  the  ground  beneath  his  footstep  rocking," — 

"  Lord !  Isabel,  how  very  shocking !" 

"  Poor  Violette  !  she  was  so  meiTy  j 
I'm  very  sorry  for  her  ! — very  !" 

"  Well !  it  was  worth  a  silver  tester. 
To  see  how  she  frown'd  when  the  Abbess  bless'd 
her  ;"— 

"  Was  Father  Anselm  there  to  shrive  ? 
For  I'm  sure  she'Jl  never  come  out  alive !" 

"  Dear  Elgitha,  don't  frighten  us  so  !" 

"  It's  just  a  hundred  years  ago. 
Since  Father  Peter  was  put  in  the  cell 
For  forgetting  to  ring  the  vesper  bell ; 
Let  us  keep  ourselves  from  mortal  sin ! 
He  went  out  as  he  went  in  !" 

"  No  !  and  he  lives  there  still,  they  say. 
In  his  cloak  of  black,  and  his  cowl  of  ffrav. 
Weeping,  and  wailing,  and  walking  about, 
W^ith  an  endless  grief,  and  an  endless  gout. 
And  wiping  his  eyes  with  a  kerchief  of  lawn, 
And  ringing  his  bell  from  dusk  to  dawn !" 

"  Let  us  pray  to  be  saved  fi-om  love  and  spectres !" — 

"  From  thQ  haunted  cell !" — "And  the  abbess's  lec- 
tures !" 
The  garish  sun  has  gone  away, 
And  taken  with  him  the  toils  of  day ; 
Foul  ambition's  hollow  schemes, 
Busy  labor's  golden  dreams, 


THE     TROUBADOUK.  109 

Angry  strife,  and  cold  debate, 

Plodding  care,  and  plotting  hate. 

But  in  the  nunnery  sleep  is  fled 

rrom  many  a  vigilant  hand  and  head  ; 

A  watch  is  set  of  friars  tall, 

Jerome  and  Joseph,  and  Peter  and  Paul  ; 

And  the  chattering  girls  are  all  lock'd  up ; 

And  the  wrinkled  old  abbess  is  gone  to  sup 

On  mushrooms  and  sweet  muscadel, 

In  the  fallen  one's  deserted  cell. 

And  now  't  is  love's  most  lovely  hour, 

And  silence  sits  on  earth  and  sky, 
And  moonlight  flings  on  turf  and  tower 

A  spell  of  deeper  witchery  ; 
And  in  the  stillness  and  the  shade 
All  things  and  colors  seem  to  fade  : 
And  the  garden  queen,  the  blushing  rose, 
Has  bowed  her  head  in  a  soft  repose  ; 
And  weary  zephyr  is  gone  to  rest 
In  the  flow'ry  grove  he  loves  the  best. 
Nothing  is  heard  but  the  long,  long  snoi-e. 
Solemn  and  sad,  of  the  watchmen  four. 
And  the  voice  of  the  rivulet  rippling  by, 
And  the  nightingale's  evening  melody, 
And  the  drowsy  Aving  of  the  sleepless  bat. 
And  the  mew  of  the  gard'ner's  tortoise-shell  cat. 

Dear  cousin  !  a  harp  like  yours  has  power 
Over  tlie  soul  in  every  hour ; 


MO  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  after  breakfast,  when  Sir  G. 
Has  been  discussing  news  and  tea, 
And  eulogized  his  coals  and  logs, 
And  told  the  breeding  of  his  dogs, 
And  hurl'd  anatheinas  of  pith 
Against  the  sect  of  Adam  Smith, 
And  handed  o'er  to  endfess  shame 
The  voters  for  the  sale  of  game, 
'Tis  sweet  to  fly  from  him  and  vapors, 
And  those  interminable  papers, 
And  waste  an  idle  hour  or  two 
With  dear  Rosifii,  and  with  you. 

.    But  those  sweet  sounds  are  doubly  sweet, 
In  the  still  nights  of  June, 
When  song  and  silence  seem  to  meet. 

Beneath  the  quiet  moon  ; 
When  not  a  single  leaf  is  stirr'd. 
By  playful  breeze  or  joyous  bird. 
And  echo  shrinks  as  if  afraid 
Of  the  faint  murmur  she  has  made. 
Oh  !  then  the  spirit  of  music  roves, 
With  a  delicate  step  through  the  myrtle  groves. 
And  still  wherever  he  flits,  he  flings 
A  thousand  charms  from  his  purple  wings. 
And  where  is  that  discourteous  wight. 
Who  would  not  linger  through  the  night 
Listening  ever,  lone  and  mute. 
To  the  murmur  of  his  mistress'  lute, 
And  courtmg  those  bright  phantasies, 
Which  haunt  the  dreams  of  waking  eyes  1 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  Ill 

He  came  that  night,  the  Troubadour, 

While  the  four  fat  friars  slept  secure, 

And  gazed  on  the  lamp  that  sweetly  glisten'd, 

Where  he  thought  his  mistress  listen'd  ; 

Low  and  clear  the  silver  note 

On  the  thrill'd  air  seem'd  to  float ; 

Such  might  be  an  angel's  moan, 

Half  a  whisper,  half  a  tone. 

"  So  glad  a  life  was  never,  love, 

As  that  which  childhood  leads, 
Before  it  learns  to  sever,  love. 

The  roses  from  the  weeds : 
When  to  be  very  duteous,  love, 

Is  all  it  has  to  do ; 
And  every  flower  is  beauteous,  love, 

And  every  folly  true.  • 

"  And  you  can  still  remember,  love, 

The  buds,  that  decked  our  play. 
Though  destiny's  December,  love, 

Has  whirled  those  buds  away  : 
And  you  can  smile  through  tears,  love, 

And  feel  a  joy  in  pain. 
To  think  upon  those  years,  love, 

You  may  not  see  again. 

"  When  we  mimick'd  the  Friar's  hov/ls,  love. 
Cared  nothing  for  his  creeds. 
Made  bonnets  of  his  cowls,  love. 
And  bracelets  of  his  beads ; 


112  THE     TROUBADOUR. 


And  gray -beards  looked  not  awful,  love, 
And  grandames  made  no  din, 

And  vows  were  not  unlawful,  love, 
And  kisses  w^ere  no  sin. 


"  And  do  you  never  dream,  love. 

Of  that  enchanted  well. 
Where  under  the  moon-beam,  love, 

The    fairies  wove  their  spell  1 
How  oft  we  saw  them  greeting,  love, 

Beneath  the  blasted  tree, 
And  heard  their  pale  feet  beating,  love. 

To  their  own  minstrelsy  ! 

"  And  do  you  never  think,  love. 

Of  the  shallop,  and  the  wave. 
And  the  willow  on  the  brink,  love. 

Over  the  poacher's  grave  1 
Where  always  in  the  dark,  love, 

We  heard  a  heavy  sigh, 
And  the  dogs  were  wont  to  bark,  love. 

Whenever  they  Avent  by  1 

"  Then  gaily  shone  the   heaven,  love, 

On  life's  untroubled  sea, 
And  Vidal's  heart  was  given,  love, 

In  happiness  to  thee  ; 
The  sea  is  all  benighted,  love, 

The   heaven  has  ceased  to  shine; 
The  heart  is  seared  and  blighted,  love, 

But  still  the  heart  is  thine  !" 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  113 

He  paused  and  looked ;  he  paused  and  sighed ; 

None  appear'd,  and  none  replied : 

All  was  still  but  the  water's  wail, 

And  the  tremulous  voice  of  the  nightingale, 

And  the  insects  buzzing  among  the  briers, 

And  the  nasal  note  of  the  four  fat  friars. 

"  Oh  fly  with  me  !  'tis  passion's  hour ; 

The  world  is  gone  to  sleep  ; 
And  nothing  wakes  in  brake  or  bower. 

But  those  who  love  and  weep  : 
This  is  the  golden  time  and  weather, 
When  songs  and  sighs  go  out  together. 
And  minstrels  pledge  the  rosy  wine 
To  lutes  like  this,  and  lips  like  thine ! 

"  Oh  fly  with  me  !  my  courser's  flight 

Is  like  the  rushing  breeze. 
And  the  kind  moon  has  said  '  Good  night !' 

And  sunk  behind  the  trees : 
The  lover's  voice — the  loved  one's  ear — 
There's  nothing  else  to  speak  and  hear  ; 
And  we  will  say,  as  on  we  glide, 
That  nothing  lives  on  earth  beside  ! 

*'  Oh  fly  with  me  !  and  we  will  wing 

Our  white  skiff"  o'er  the  waves, 
And  hear  the   tritons  revelling. 

Among  their  coral  caves ; 
The  envious  mermaid,  when  we  pass, 
Shall  cease  her  song,  and  drop  her  glass ; 


Ill  THE     TROUBADOUK. 

For  it  -will  break  her  very  heart, 
To  see  how  fair  and  dear  thou  art. 

"  Oh  fly  with  me  !  and  we  will  dwell 

Far  over  the  green  seas, 
Where  Sadness  rings  no  parting  knell 

For  moments  such  as  these  ! 
Where  Italy's  unclouded  skies 
Look  brightly  down  on  brighter  eyes, 
Or  where  the  wave-wed  city  smiles, 
Enthroned  upon  her  hundred  isles. 

"  Oh  fly  with  me !  by  these  sweet  strings 
Swept  o'er  by  Passion's  fingers — ^ 

By  all  the  rocks,  and  vales,  and  springs — 
Where  Memory  lives  and  lingers — 

Bv  all  the  tongue  can  never  tell — 

By  all  the  heart  has  told  so  well — 

By  all  that  has  been  or  may  be — 

And  by  Love's  self — Oh  fly  with  me  !" 

He  paused  again — no  sight  or  sound  ! 
The  still  air  rested  all  around  ; 
He  Ibok'd  to  the  tower,  and  he  look'd  to  the  tree, 
Night  was  as  still  as  night  could  be  ; 
Something  he  mutter'd  of  Prelate  and  Pope 
And  took  fi-om  his  mantle  a  silken  rope ; 
Love  dares  much,  and  Love  climbs  well ! 
He  stands  bv  the  Abbess  in  Violette's  cell. 

He  put  on  a  mask,  and  he  put  out  the  light ; 
The  Abbess  was  dressed  in  a  veil  of  white  ; 


THE     TROTJB  ADO  UR. 


115 


Not  a  look  he  gave,  not  a  word  he  said ; 
The  pages  are  ready,  the  blanket  is  spread  ; 
He  has  clasped  his  arm  her  waist  about, 
And  lifted  the  screaming  Abbess  out : 
"  My  horse  is  fleet,  and  my  hand  is  true, 
And  my  Squire  has  a  bow  of  deadly  yew  ; 
Away,  and  away,  over  mountain  and  moor ! 
Good  luck  to  the  love  of  the  gay  Troubadour  '" 

"■VVhat !  rode  away  with  the  Abbess  behind  1 

Lord  !  sister  !  is  the  Devil  blind  f 
"  Eull  fourscore  winters  !" — "  Fast  and  pray  ! 

For  the  powers  of  darkness  fight  to-day  !" 
"  I  sha'nt  get  over  the  shock  for  a  week  !" — 
"  Did  any  one  hear  our  Mother  shriek  V — 
"  Do  shut  your  mouth  !"— "Do  shut  the  cell !" 
"  What  a  villanous,  odious,  sulphury  smell !" 
"  Has  the  Evil  One  taken  the  JNIass-book  too  f 
"  Ah  me  !  what  will  poor  little  Violette  do  1 

She  has  but  one  loaf  since  seven  o'clock ; 

And  no  one  can  open  that  horrible  lock  ; 

And  Satan  will  grin  with  a  fiendish  glee, 

When  he  finds  the  Abbess  has  kept  the  key  !" 
"  How  shall  we  manage  to  sleep  to-night  ?" 
"  I  wouldn't  for  worlds  put  out  my  light !" 
"  I'm  sure  I  shall  die  if  I  hear  but  a  mole  stir !" 
"  ril  clap  St.  Ursula  under  my  bolster !" 

But  oh !  the  pranks  that  Vidal  played. 
When  he  found  what  a  bargain  his  blindness  had 
made ! 


116  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Wilful  and  wild — half  in  fun,  half  on  fire, 
He  stared  at  the  Abbess,  and  storm'd  h,t  the  Squire ! 
Consigned  to  perdition  all  silly  romancers, 
Ask'd  twenty  strange  questions,  and  staid  for  no 

answers, 
Raving,  and  roaring,  and  laughing  by  fits. 
And  driving  the  old  woman  out  of  her  wits. 

There  was  a  jousting  at  Chichester ; 
It  had  made  in  the  country  a  mighty  stir. 
And  all  that  was  brave,  and  all  that  was  fair. 
And  all  that  was  neither,  came  trooping  there ; 
Scarfs  and  scars,  and  frays  and  frowns. 
And  flow'ry  speeches,  and  flow'ry  crowns. 
A  hundred  knights  set  spear  in  rest 
For  the  lady  they  deemed  the  loveliest, 
And  Vidal  broke  a  lance  that  day 
■For  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula. 

There  was  a  feast  at  Arundel ; 
The  town-clerk  tolled  a  ponderous  bell. 
And  nothing  was  there  but  row  and  rout. 
And  toil  to  get  in,  and  toil  to  get  out, 
And  sheriffs  fatter  than  their  venison. 
And  belles  that  never  staid  for  benison. 
The  red,  red  wine  was  mantling  there, 
To  the  health  of  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 
And  Vidal  drain'd  the  .cup  that  day 
To  the  Abbess  of  St,  Ursula. 
There  was  a  wedding  done  at  Bramber  ; 
The  town  was  full  of  myrrh  and  amber ; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  117 

And  the  boors  were  roasting  valorous  beeves, 
And  the  boys  were  gathering  myrtle  leaves, 
And  the  bride  was  choosing  her  finest  flounces, 
And  the  bridegroom  was  scattering  coin  by  ounces, 
And  every  stripling  danced  on  the  green 
With  the  girl  he  had  made  his  idol  queen  ; 
And  Vidal  led  the  dance  that  day 
With  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula. 

Three  days  had  pass'd  when  the  Abbess  came  back  ; 

Her  voice  was  out  of  tune, 
And  her  new  white  veil  was  gone  to  wrack, 

And  so  were  her  sandal  shoon. 
No  word  she  said ;  they  put  her  to  bed, 
With  a  pain  in  her  heels,  and  a  pain  in  her  head, 
And  she  talk'd  in  her  delirious  fever 

Of  a  high-trotting  horse,  and  black  deceiver  ; 
Of  music  and  merriment,  love  and  lances, 
Bridles  and  blasphemy,  dishes  and  dances. 

They  went  with  speed  to  the  dungeon-door ; 

The  air  was  chill  and  damp ; 
And  the  pale  girl  lay  on  the  marble  floor, 

Beside  the  dying  lamp. 
They  kissed  her  lips,  they  called  her  name. 
No  kiss  returned,  no  answer  came ; 
Motionless,  lifeless,  there  she  lay, 
Like  a  statue  rent  from  its  base  away  ! 
They  said  by  famine  she  had  died : 
Yet  the  bread  untastcd  lay  beside  ; 


118 


THE     TROUBADOUR, 


And  her  cheek  -was  as  full,  and  fresh,  and  fair, 

As  it  had  been  when  warmth  was  there, 

And  her  eyes  were  unclosed,  and  their  glassy  rays 

Were  fixed  in  a  desolate,  dreamy  gaze, 

As  if  before  their  orbs  had  gone 

Some  sight  they  could  not  close  upon  ; 

And  her  bright  brown  locks  all  gray  were  grown  ; 

And  her  hands  were  clenched,  and  cold  as  stone  ; 

And  the  veins  upon  her  neck  and  brow 

But  she  was  dead  ! — what  boots  it  how  ? 

In  holy  ground  she  was  not  laid ; 

For  she  had  died  in  sin, 
And  good  St.  Ursula  forbade 

That  such  should  enter  in  ; 
But  in  a  calm  and  cold  retreat 

They  made  her  place  of  rest. 
And  laid  her  in  her  winding-sheet. 

And  left  her  there  unblest ; 
And  set  a  small  stone  at  her  head, 

Under  a  spreading  tree ; 
"  Orate''' — that  was  all  it  said — 
"  Orate  hie  pro  me!'''' 

And  Vidal  came  at  night,  alone, 

And  tore  his  shining  hair. 
And  laid  him  down  beside  the  stone, 

And  wept  till  day-break  there. 

"  Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well, 
Most  beautiful  of  earthly  things. 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  119 

I  will  not  bid  thy  spirit  stay, 
Nor  link  to  earth  those  glittering  wings, 


That  burst  like  light  away 


I  know  that  thou  art  gone  to  dwell 
In  the  sunny  home  of  the  fresh  day  beam, 

Before  Decay's  unpitying  tread 
Hath  crept  upon  the  dearest  dream 

That  ever  came  and  fled ; 

Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ; 
And  go  thy  way,  all  pure  and  fair, 

Into  the  starry  firmament; 
And  wander  there  with  the  spirits  of  air, 

As  bright  and  innocent ! 


'&' 


"  Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ! 
Strange  feet  will  be  upon  thy  clay. 

And  never  stop  to  sigh  or  sorrow ; 
Yet  many  wept  for  thee  to-day. 

And  one  will  weep  to-morrow  : 

^    Alas  !  that  melancholy  knell 
Shall  often  wake  my  wondering  ear. 

And  thou-shalt  greet  me,  for  a  while, 
Too  beautiful  to  make  me  fear, 

Too  sad  to  let  me  smile ! 

Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ! 
I  know  that  heaven  for  thee  is  won  ; 

And  yet  I  feel  I  would  resign 
Whole  ages  of  my  life,  for  one — 

One  little  hour,  of  thine ! 


120  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

"  Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ! 
See,  I  have  been  to  the  sweetest  bowers, 

And  culled  from,  garden  and  from  heath 
The  teuderest  of  all  tender  flowers, 

And  blended  in  my  wreath 

The  violet  and  the  blue  harebell, 
And  oine  frail  rose  in  its  earliest  bloom  ; 

Alas  !  I  meant  it  for  thy  hair. 
And  now  I  fling  it  on  thy  tomb. 

To  weep  and  wither  there  ! 
Fare  ye  well,  fare  ye  well ! 
Sleep,  sleep,  my  love,  in  fragrant  shade, 

Droop,  droop  to-night,  thou  blushing  token  ; 
A  fairer  flower  shall  never  fade. 

Nor  a  fonder  lieart  be  broken  !" 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  TEUFEL-HAUS. 


The  way  was  lone,  and  the  hour  was  late, 

And  Sir  Rudolph  was  far  from  his  castle  gate. 

The  night  came  down,  by  slow  degrees. 

On  the  river*Stream,  and  the  forest-trees ; 

And  by  the  heat  of  the  heavy  air, 

And  by  the  lightning's  distant  glare, 

And  by  the  rustling  of  the  woods, 

And  by  the  roaring  of  the  floods, 

In  half  an  hour,  a  man  might  say, 

The  Spirit  of  Storm  would  ride  that  way. 

But  little  he  cared,  that  stripling  pale. 

For  the  sinking  sun,  or  the  rising  gale  ; 

For  he,  as  he  rode,  was  dreaming  now. 

Poor  youth,  of  a  woman's  broken  vow. 

Of  the  cup  dashed  down,  ere  the  wine  was  tasted. 

Of  eloquent  speeches  sadly  wasted, 

Of  a  gallant  heart  all  burnt  to  ashes. 

And  the  Baron  of  Katzberg's  long  mustaches. 

So  the  earth  below,  and  the  heaven  above, 

He  saw  them  not ; — those  dreams  of  love, 

As  some  have  found,  and  some  will  find. 

Make  men  extremely  deaf  and  blind. 

6 


122      THE     LEGE'ND     OF     THE     TEUFEL-HAUS. 

At  last  he  opened  his  great  blue  eyes, 
And  looking  about  in  vast  surprise, 
Pound  that  his  hunter  had  turned  his  back, 
An  hour  ago  on  the  beaten  track, 
And  now  was  threading  a  forest  hoar, 
Where  steed  had  never  stepped  before. 

"  By  Caesar's  head,"  Sir  Rudolph  said, 
"It  were  a  sorry  joke, 
If  I  to-night  should  make  my  bed 

On  the  turf,  beneath  an  oak ! 
Poor  Roland  reeks  from  head  to  hoof; — 

Now,  for  thy  sake,  good  roan, 
I  would  we  were  beneath  a  roof. 
Were  it  the  foul  fiend's  own  !" 

Ere  the  tongue  could  rest,  ere  the  lips  could  close, 

The  sound  of  a  listener's  laughter  rose. 

It  was  not  the  scream  of  a  merry  boy 

When  harlequin  waves  his  wand  of  joy  ; 

Nor  the  shout  from  a  serious  curate,  won 

By  a  bending  bishop's  annual  pun  ; 

Nor  the  roar  of  a  Yorkshire  clown ; — oh,  no  ! 

It  was  a  gentle  laugh,  and  low  ; 

Half  uttered,  perhaps,  and  stifled  half, 

A  good  old-gentlemanly  laugh ; 

Such  as  my  uncle  Peter's  are. 

When  he  tells  you  his  tales  of  Dr.  Parr. 

The  rider  looked  to  the  left  and  the  right. 

With  something  of  marvel,  and  more  of  fright : 


THE     LEGEND     OF     THE     TEtJFEL-HAUS.       123 

But  brighter  gleamed  his  anxious  eye, 

When  a  light  shone  out  from  a  hill  hard  by. 

Thither  he  spurred,  as  gay  and  glad 

As  Mrs.  Maquill's  delighted  lad. 

When  he  turns  away  from  the  Pleas  of  the  Crown, 

Or  flings,  with  a  yawn,  old  Saunders  down, 

And  flies,  at  last,  from  all  the  mysteries 

Of  Plaintiffs'  and  Defendants'  histories, 

To  make  himself  sublimely  neat. 

For  Mrs.  Camac's  in  Mansfield  Street. 

At  a  lofty  gate  Sir  Rudolph  halted  ; 
Down  from  his  seat  Sir  Rudolph  vaulted  : 
And  he  blew  a  blast  with  might  and  main. 
On  the  bugle  that  hung  by  an  iron  chain. 
The  sound  called  up  a  score  of  sounds ; — 
The  screeching  of  owls,  and  the  baying  of  hounds, 
The  hollow  toll  of  the  turret  bell. 
The  call  of  the  watchful  sentinel. 
And  a  groan  at  last,  like  a  peal  of  thunder, 
As  the  huge  old  portals  rolled  asunder. 
And  gravely  from  the  castle  hall 
Paced  forth  the  white-robed  seneschal. 
He  stayed  not  to  ask  of  what  degree 
So  fair  and  famished  a  knight  might  be ; 
But  knowing  that  all  untimely  question 
Ruffles  the  temper,  and  mars  the  digestion, 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  crupper. 
And  said, — "  You're  just  in  time  for  supper !" 

They  led  him  to  the  smoking  board. 
And  placed  him  next  to  the  castle's  lord. 


124   THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  TEUFEL-HAUS. 

He  looked  around  with  a  hurried  glance : 

You  may  ride  from  the  border  to  fair  Penzance, 

And  nowhere,  but  at  Epsom  Races, 

Find  such  a  group  of  ruffian  faces 

As  thronged  that  chamber :  some  were  talking 

Of  feats  of  hunting  and  of  hawking. 

And  some  were  drunk,  and  some  were  di'eaming. 

And  some  found  pleasure  in  blaspheming. 

He  thought,  as  he  gazed  on  the  fearful  crew, 

That  the  lamps  that  burned  on  the  walls  burned  blue. 

They  brought  him  a  pasty  of  mighty  size, 

To  cheer  his  heart,  and  to  charm  his  eyes ; 

They  brought  the  wine,  so  rich  and  old. 

And  filled  to  the  brim  the  cup  of  gold ; 

The  knight  looked  down,  and  the  knight  looked  up, 

But  he  carved  not  the  meat,  and  he  drained  not  the  cup. 

"  Ho,  ho,"  said  his  host  with  angry  brow, 
"  I  wot  our  guest  is  fine ; 
Our  fare  is  far  too  coarse,  I  trow, 
For  such  nice  taste  as  thine  : 
Yet  trust  me  I  have  cooked  the  food, 

And  I  have  filled  the  can. 
Since  I  have  lived  in  this  old  wood, 
For  many  a  nobler  man." — 
"  The  savory  buck  and  the  ancient  cask 
To  a  weary  man  are  sweet ; 
But  ere  he  taste,  it  is  fit  he  ask 

For  a  blessing  on  bowl  and  meat. 


THE    LEGEND     OF     THE     T  E  U  F  EL-H  AU  S  .      125 

Let  me  but  pray  for  a  minute's  space,  ^ 

And  bid  me  pledge  ye  then  ; 
I  swear  to  ye,  by  our  Lady's  grace, 

I  shall  eat  and  drink  like  ten  !" 


The  lord  of  the  castle  in  wrath  arose, 

He  frowned  like  a  fiery  dragon ; 
Indignantly  he  blew  his  nose, 

And  overturned  the  flagon. 
And,  "Away,"  quoth  he,  "with  the  canting  priest. 
Who  comes  uncalled  to  a  midnight  feast, 
And  breathes  through  a  helmet  his  holy  benison. 
To  sour  my  hock,  and  spoil  my  venison !" 

That  moment  all  the  lights  went  out ; 

And  they  dragged  him  forth,  that  rabble  rout. 

With  oath,  and  threat,  and  foul  scurrility, 

And  every  sort  of  incivility. 

They  barred  the  gates  ;  and  the  peal  of  laughter, 

Sudden  and  shrill,  that  followed  after, 

Died  off  into  a  dismal  tone, 

Like  a  parting  spirit's  painful  moan. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Rudolph,  as  he  stood 

On  foot  in  the  deep  and  silent  wood ; 

"  I  wish,  good  Eoland,  rack  and  stable 

May  be  kinder  to-night  than  their  master's  table  !" 

By  this  the  storm  had  fleeted  by  ; 

And  the  moon  with  a  quiet  smile  looked  out 
From  the  glowing  arch  of  a  cloudless  sky, 

Flinging  her  silvery  beams  about 


12G   THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  T  EUF  EL-H  AU  S. 

On  rock,  tree,  wave,  and  gladdening  all 

With  just  as  miscellaneous  bounty, 
As  Isabel's,  whose  sweet  smiles  fall 

In  half  an  hour  on  half  the  county. 
Less  wild  Sir  Eudolph's  pathway  seemed, 

As  he  turned  from  that  discourteous  tower ; 
Small  spots  of  verdure  gaily  gleamed 

On  either  side ;  and  many  a  flower, 
Lily,  and  violet,  and  heart's-ease, 

Grew  by  the  way,  a  fragrant  border ; 
And  the  tangled  boughs  of  the  hoary  trees 

Were  twined  in  picturesque  disorder  : 
And  there  came  from  the  grove,  and  there  came  from 
the  hill 

The  loveliest  sounds  he  had  ever  heard. 
The  cheerful  voice  of  the  dancing  rill. 

And  the  sad,  sad  song  of  the  lonely  bird. 

And  at  last  he  stared  with  wondering  eyes. 

As  well  he  might,  on  a  huge  pavilion  : 
'Twas  clothed  with  stuffs  of  a  hundred  dyes, 

Blue,  purple,  orange,  pink,  vermilion  ; 
And  there  were  quaint  devices  traced 

All  round  in  the  Saracenic  manner ; 
And  the  top  which  gleamed  like  gold,  was  graced 

With  the  drooping  folds  of  a  silken  banner  j 
And  on  the  poles,  in  silent  pride. 

There  sat  small  doves  of  white  enamel ; 
And  the  vail  from  the  entrance  was  drawn  aside, 

And  flung  on  the  humps  of  a  silver  camel. 


THE  LEGKND  OF  THE  TEUFEL-HAUS.   127 

In  short  it  was  the  sweetest  thing 

For  a  weary  youth  in  a  wood  to  light  on ;  ' 

And  finer  far  than  what  a  king 

Built  up,  to  prove  his  taste,  at  Brighton. 

The  gilded  gate  was  all  unbarred ; 
And,  close  beside  it,  for  a  guard, 
There  lay  two  dwarfs  with  monstrous  noses, 
Both  fast  asleep  upon  some  roses. 
Sir  Rudolph  entered ;  rich  and  bright 
Was  all  that  met  his  ravished  sight ; 
Soft  tapestries  from  far  countries  brought, 
Rare  cabinets  with  gems  inwrought, 
White  vases  of  the  finest  mould, 
And  mirrors  set  in  burnished  gold. 
Upon  a  couch  a  grayhound  slumbered ; 
And  a  small  table  was  encumber'd 
With  paintings,  and  an  ivory  lute, 
And  sweetmeats,  and  delicious  fruit. 
Sir  Rudolph  lost  no  time  in  praising  ; 
For  he,  I  should  have  said,  was  gazing, 
In  attitude  extremely  tragic, 
Upon  a  sight  of  stranger  magic ; 
A  sight,  which,  seen  at  such  a  season, 
Might  well  astonish  Mistress  Reason, 
And  scare  Dame  Wisdom  from  her  fences 
Of  rules  and  maxims,  moods  and  tenses. 
Beneath  a  crimson  canopy 

A  lady,  passing  fair,  was  lying ; 
Deep  sleep  was  on  her  gentle  eye. 
And  in  her  slumber  she  was  sighing 


128      THE     LEGEND     OF     THE     T  E  XJF  E  L- H  AU  S. 

Bewitching  sighs,  such  sighs  as  say 

Beneath  the  moonlight,  to  a  lover, 
Things  which  the  coward  tongue  by  day 

Would  not,  for  all  the  world,  discover  : 
She  lay  like  a  shape  of  sculptured  stone, 
So  pale,  so  tranquil : — she  had  thrown, 

For  the  warm  evening's  sultriness. 
The  broidered  coverlet  aside ; 
And  nothing  was  there  to  deck  or  hide 

The  glory  of  her  loveliness, 
But  a  scarf  of  gauze  so  light  and  thin 
You  might  see  beneath  the  dazzling  skin. 
And  watch  the  purple  streamlets  go 
Through  the  valleys  of  white  and  stainless  snow, 
Or  here  and  there  a  wayward  tress 
Which  wandered  out  with  vast  assurance 
From  the  pearls  that  kept  the  rest  in  durance, 
And  fluttered  about,  as  if  'twould  try 
To  lure  a  zephyr  from  the  sky. 

"  Bertha  !" — large  drops  of  anguish  came 

On  Rudolph's  brow,  as  he  breathed  that  name, — 

"  Oh  fair  and  false  one,  wake,  and  fear  ; 

I  the  betrayed,  the  scorned,  am  here." 

The  eye  moved  not  from  its  dull  eclipse. 

The  voice  came  not  from  the  fast-shut  lips ; 

No  matter  !  well  that  gazer  knew 

The  tone  of  bliss,  and  the  eyes  of  blue. 

Sir  Rudolph  hid  his  burning  face 
With  both  his  hands  for  a  minute's  space, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  TEUFEL-HAUS.   129 

And  all  his  frame  in  awful  fashion 
Was  shaken  by  some  sudden  passion. 
What  guilty  fancies  o'er  him  ran  1 — 

Oh,  Pity  will  be  slow  to  guess  them  ; 
And  never,  save  to  the  holy  man. 

Did  good  Sir  Rudolph  e'er  confess  them, 
But  soon  his  spirit  you  might  deem 
Came  forth  from  the  shade  of  the,  fearful  dream ; 
His  cheek,  though  pale,  was  calm  again. 
And  he  spoke  in  peace,  though  he  spoke  in  pain, 

"  Not  mine  !  not  mine  !  now,  Mary  mother, 
Aid  me  the  sinful  hope  to  smother  ! 
Not  mine,  not  mine ! — I  have  loved  thee  long 
Thou  hast  quitted  me  with  grief  and  wrong. 
But  pure  the  heart  of  a  knight  should  be, — 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  thou  art  safe  for  me. 
Yet  shalt  thou  know  by  a  certain  sign. 
Whose  lips  have  been  so  near  to  thine. 
Whose  eyes  have  looked  upon  thy  sleep. 
And  turned  away,  and  longed  to  weep, 
Whose  heart, — mourn, — madden  as  it  will, — 
Has  spared  thee,  and  adored  thee,  still  !" 

His  purple  mantle,  rich  and  wide, 
From  his  neck  the  trembling  youth  untied. 
And  flung  it  o'er  those  dangerous  charms. 
The  swelling  neck,  and  the  rounded  arms. 
Once  more  he  looked,  once  more  he  sighed  ; 
And  away,  away,  from  the  perilous  tent. 

Swift  as  the  rush  of  an  eagle's  wing. 

Or  the  flight  of  a  shaft  from  Tartar  string, 

Into  the  wood  Sir  Rudolph  went : 

6* 


ISO     TUE     LEGEND     OF     THE     TEUFEL-HAU3. 

Not  -vrith  more  joy  the  school-boys  run 

To  the  gay  green  fields,  when  their  task  is  done ; 

Not  with  naore  haste  the  members  fly, 

Wlien  Hume  has  caught  the  Speaker's  eye. 

At  last  the  daylight  came  ;  and  then 
A  score  or  two  of  serving  men, 
Supposing  that  some  sad  disaster 
Had  happened  to  their  lord  and  master, 
Went  out  into  the  wood,  and  found  him, 
Unhorsed,  and  with  no  mantle  round  him. 
Ere  he  could  tell  his  tale  romantic, 
The  leech  pronounced  him  clearly  frantic, 
So  ordered  him  at  once  to  bed, 
And  clapped  a  blister  on  his  head. 

Within  the  sound  of  the  castle-clock 
There  stands  a  huge  and  rugged  rock. 
And  I  have  heard  the  peasants  say, 
That  the  grieving  groom  at  noon  that  day 
Found  gallant  Roland,  cold  and  stiff. 
At  the  base  of  the  black  and  beetling  cliff. 

Beside  the  rock  there  is  an  oak. 
Tall,  blasted  by  the  thunder-stroke. 
And  I  have  heard  the  peasants  say, 
That  there  Sir  Rudolph's  mantle  lay, 
And  coiled  in  many  a  deadly  wreath 
A  venomous  serpent  slept  beneath. 


EVERY-DAY  CHARACTERS. 


I.— THE  VICAR. 

Some  years  ago,  ere  Time  and  Taste 

Had  turned  our  parish  topsy-turvy, 
When  Darnel  Park  was  Darnel  Waste, 

And  roads  as  little  known  as  scurvy, 
The  man  who  lost  his  way  between 

St.  Mary's  Hill  and  Sandy  Thicket, 
Was  always  shown  across  the  Green, 

And  guided  to  the  Parson's  wicket. 

Back  flew  the  bolt  of  lisson  lath ; 

Fair  Margaret  in  her  tidy  kirtle. 
Led  the  lorn  traveller  up  the  path, 

Through  clean-clipt  rows  of  box  and  myrtle  : 
And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 

Upon  the  parlor  steps  collected. 
Wagged  all  their  tails  and  seemed  to  say, 

"  Our  master  knows  you ;  you're  expected  I" 


182  THE     VICAR. 

Up  rose  the  Reverend  Dr.  Brown, 

Up  rose  the  Doctor's  "  winsome  marroAV  ;" 
The  lady  lay  her  knitting  down, 

Her  husband  clasped  his  ponderous  Barrow  ; 
Whate'er  the  stranger's  caste  or  creed, 

Pundit  or  papist,  saint  or  sinner, 
He  found  a  stable  for  his  steed, 

And  welcome  for  himself,  and  dinner. 

If,  when  he  reached  his  journey's  end. 

And  warmed  himself  in  court  or  college. 
He  had  not  gained  an  honest  friend, 

And  twenty  curious  scraps  of  knowledge ; — 
If  he  departed  as  he  came. 

With  no  new  light  on  love  or  liquor, — 
Good  sooth,  the  traveller  was  to  blame. 

And  not  the  Vicarage,  or  the  Vicar. 

His  talk  was  like  a  stream  which  runs 

With  rapid  change  from  rock  to  roses : 
It  slipped  from  politics  to  puns : 

It  passed  from  Mahomet  to  Moses : 
Beginning  with  the  laws  which  keep 

The  planets  in  their  radiant  courses. 
And  ending  with  some  precept  deep 

For  dressing  eels  or  shoeing  horses. 

He  was  a  shrewd  and  sound  divine. 
Of  loud  Dissent  the  mortal  terror ; 

And  when,  by  dint  of  page  and  line. 
He  'stablished  Truth,  or  started  Error, 


THE     VICAR.  133 

The  Baptist  found  him  far  too  deep ; 

The  Deist  sighed  with  saving  sorrow ; 
And  the  lean  Levite  went  to  sleep, 

And  dreamed  of  tasting  pork  to-morrow. 

His  sermon  never  said  or  showed 

That  Earth  is  foul,  that  Heaven  is  gracious, 
Without  refreshment  on  the  road 

From  Jerome,  or  from  Athanasius ; 
And  sure  a  righteous  zeal  inspired 

The  hand  and  head  that  penned  and  planned  them, 
For  all  who  understood,  admired. 

And  some  who  did  not  understand  them. 

He  wrote,  too,  in  a  quiet  way. 

Small  treatises,  and  smaller  verses  ; 
And  sage  i-emarks  on  chalk  and  clay, 

And  hints  to  noble  lords  and  nurses ; 
True  histories  of  last  year's  ghost, 

Lines  to  a  ringlet  or  a  turban  ; 
And  trifles  for  the  Morning  Post, 

And  nothing  for  Sylvanus  Urban. 

He  did  not  think  all  mischief  fair, 

Although  he  had  a  knack  of  joking; 
He  did  not  make  himself  a*bear, 

Although  he  had  a  taste  for  smoking : 
And  when  religious  sects  ran  mad,  * 

He  held,  in  spite  of  all  his  learning, 
That  if  a  man's  belief  is  bad, 

It  will  not  be  improved  by  burning. 


134  THE     VICAR. 

And  he  was  kind,  and  loved  to  sit 

In  the  low  hut  or  garnished  cottage, 
And  praise  the  farmer's  homely  wit. 

And  share  the  widow's  homelier  pottage  : 
At  his  approach  complaint  grew  mild. 

And  when  his  hand  unbarred  the  shutter. 
The  clammy  lips  of  Fever  smiled 

The  welcome  which  they  could  not  utter. 

He  always  had  a  tale  for  me 

Of  Julius  Ceesar  or  of  Venus  : 
From  him  I  learned  the  rule  of  three, 

Cat's  cradle,  leap-frog,  and  Quae  genus ; 
I  used  to  singe  his  powdered  wig. 

To  steal  the  staff  he  put  such  trust  in ; 
And  make  the  puppy  dance  a  jig 

When  he  began  to  quote  Augustin. 

Alack  the  change  !  in  vain  I  look 

For  haunts  in  which  my  boyhood  trifled ; 
The  level  lawn,  the  trickling  brook. 

The  trees  I  climbed,  the  beds  I  rifled  : 
The  church  is  larger  than  before  ; 

You  reach  it  by  a  carriage  entry  : 
It  holds  three  hundred  people  more : 

And  pews^i-e  fitted  tip  for  gentry. 

Sit  in  the  Vicar's  seat :  yooi'll  hear 
The  doctrine  of  a  gentle  Johnian, 

Whose  hand  is  white,  whose  tone  is  clear, 
Whose  tone  is  very  Ciceronian. 


QUINCE.  135 


Where  is  the  old  man  laid  1 — look  down, 
And  construe  on  the  slab  before  you, 

Hic  Jacet  GULIELMUS  BROWN, 
ViR  Nulla  non  donandus  laura. 


II._QUINCE. 

Fallentis  semita  vitse. 


Horace. 


Near  a  small  village  in  the  W^est, 

Where  many  very  worthy  people 
Eat,  drink,  play  whist,  and  do  their  best 

To  guard  from  evil  Church  and  Steeple, 
There  stood — alas !  it  stands  no  more  ! 

A  tenement  of  brick  and  plaster. 
Of  which,  for  forty  years  and  four, 

My  good  friend  Quince  was  lord  and  master  ! 

Welcome  was  he  in  hut  and  hall. 

To  maids  and  matrons,  peers  and  peasants. 
He  won  the  sympathies  of  all. 

By  making  puns  and  making  presents ; 
Though  all  the  parish  was  at  strife. 

He  kept  his  counsel  and  his  carriage. 
And  laughed  and  loved  a  quiet  life. 

And  shrank  from  Chancery's  suits  and  marriage. 


136  QUINCE. 

Sound  was  his  claret  and  his  head  ; 

"Warm  were  his  double  ale  and  feelings — 
His  partners  at  the  whist  club  said, 

That  he  was  faultless  in  his  dealings — 
He  went  to  church  but  once  a  week  ; 

Yet  Dr.  Poundtext  alwavs  found  him 
An  upright  man,  who  studied  Greek, 

And  liked  to  see  his  friends  around  him. 

Asylums,  hospitals,  and  schools, 

He  used  to  swear  were  made  to  cozen  ; 
All  who  subscribed  to  them  were  fools. 

And  he  subscribed  to  half  a  dozen  ; 
It  was  his  doctrine  that  the  poor 

Were  always  able,  never  willing ; 
And  so  the  beggar  at  the  door 

Had  first  abuse,  and  then  a  shilling. 

Some  public  principles  he  had, 

But  was  no  flatterer,  nor  fretter  ; 
He  rapped  his  box  when  things  were  bad. 

And  said,  "  I  cannot  make  them  better  !" 
And  much  he  loathed  the  patriot's  snort. 

And  much  he  scorned  the  placeman's  shuffle. 
And  cut  the  fiercest  quarrels  short. 

With — "  Patience,  gentlemen,  and  shuffle." 

Tor  full  ten  years  his  pointer.  Speed, 

Had  couched  beneath  his  master's  table  ; 

For  twice  ten  years  his  old  white  steed 
Had  fattened  in  his  master's  stable — 


QUINCE.  137 

Old  Quince  averred,  upon  his  troth, 

They  were  the  ugliest  beasts  in  Devon ; 

And  none  knew  why  he  fed  them  both. 
With  his  own  hands,  six  days  in   seven. 

Whene'er  they  heard  his  ring  or  knock, 

Quicker  than  thought,  the  village  slatterns 
Flung  down  the  novel,  smoothed  the  frock. 

And  took  up  Mrs.  Glasse,  and  patterns ; 
Adine  was  studying  baker's  bills  ; 

Louisa  looked  the  queen  of  knitters ; 
Jane  happened  to  be  hemming  frills ; 

And  Bell,  by  chance,  was  making  fritters. 

But  all  was  vain ;  and  while  decay 

Came  like  a  tranquil  moonlight  o'er  him, 
And  found  him  gouty  still,  and  gay. 

With  no  fair  nurse  to  bless  or  bore  him  ; 
His  rugged  smile,  and  easy  chair, 

His  dread  of  matrimonial  lectures. 
His  wig,  his  stick,  his  powdered  hair. 

Were  themes  for  very  strange  conjectures. 

Some  sages  thought  the  stars  above 

Had  crazed  him  with  excess  of  knowledge ; 
Some  heard  he  had  been  crossed  in  love. 

Before  he  came  away  from  college — 
Some  darkly  hinted  that  his  Grace 

Did  nothing,  great  or  small,  without  him, 
Some  whispered  with  a  solemn  flice. 

That  there  was  something  odd  about  him  ! 


138  QUINCE. 

I  found  hira  at  threescore  and  ten, 

A  single  man,  but  bent  quite  double, 
Sickness  -was  coming  on  him  then. 

To  take  him  from  a  world  of  trouble — 
He  prosed  of  sliding  down  the  hill, 

Discovered  he  grew  older  daily  ; 
One  frosty  day  he  made  his  will — 

The  next  he  sent  for  Dr.  Bailey  ! 

And  so  he  lived — and  so  he  died  : — 
When  last  I  sat  beside  his  pillow, 

He  shook  my  hand — "  Ah  me  !" — he  cried, 
"  Penelope  must  wear  the  willow. 

Tell  her  I  hugged  her  rosy  chain 

WhUe  life  was  flickering  in  the  socket : 

And  say,  that  when  I  call  again, 
I'll  bring  a  license  in  my  pocket. 

"  I've  left  my  house  and  grounds  to  !Fag — 

(I  hope  his  master's  shoes  will  suit  him ;) 
And  I've  bequeathed  to  you  my  nag, 

To  feed  him  for  my  sake — or  shoot  him. 
The  Vicar's  wife  will  take  old  Fox — 

She'll  find  him  an  uncommon  mouser ; 
And  let  her  husband  have  my  box, 

My  Bible,  and  my  Assmanshauser. 

Whether  I  ought  to  die  or  not 

My  doctors  cannot  quite  determine  ; 
It's  only  clear  that  I  shall  rot. 

And  be,  like  Priam,  food  for  vermin. 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL.         139 

My  debts  are  paid  ; — ^but  Nature's  debt 

Almost  escaped  my  recollection ! 
Tom  !  we  shall  meet  again ;  and  yet 

I  cannot  leave  you  my  direction !" 


III.— THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL. 

Years — years  ago — ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  and  witty  ; 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes. 

Or  yawn'd  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty  ; 
Years,  years  ago,  while  all  my  joys 

Were  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly  ; 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 

I  saw  her  at  a  country  ball ; 

There  when  the  sound  of  flute  and  fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall. 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle, 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Of  all  that  sets  young  hearts  romancing  : 
She  was  bur  queen,  our  rose,  our  star ; 

And  when  she  danced — oh,  heaven,  her  dancing ! 

Dark  was  her  hair,  her  hand  was  white  ; 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender, 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender ; 


140        THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL. 

Her  every  look,  her  every  smile, 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows  ; 

I  thought  'twas  Venus  from  her  isle, 

I  wondered  where  she  'd  left  her  sparrows. 

She  talk'd  of  politics  or  prayers  ; 

Of  Southey's  prose,  or  Wordsworth's  sonnets  ; 
Of  daggers  or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles,  or  the  last  new  bonnets  ; 
By  candle-light,  at  twelve  o'clock. 

To  me  it  matter'd  not  a  tittle. 
If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 

I  might  have  thought  they  murmured  Little. 

Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wrote  them  for  the  Sunday  Journal. 
My  mother  laughed  ;  I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling  ; 
My  father  frown'd ;  but  how  should  gout 

Find  any  happiness  in  kneeling  ? 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  dean. 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic ; 
She  had  one  brother  just  thirteen. 

Whose  color  was  extremely  hectic ; 
Her  grandmother,  for  many  a  year, 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty  ; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer, 

And  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county. 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL.         141 

But  titles  and  the  three  per  cents, 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations. 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes  and  rents, 

Oh !  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations  *? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks, 

Such  wealth,  such  honors,  Cupid  chooses ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  stocks. 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  muses. 

She  sketch'd  ;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the  beach, 

Grew  lovelier  from  her  pencil's  shi^cling  ; 
She  botanized  ;  I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading  ; 
She  warbled  Handel ;  it  was  grand — 

She  made  the  Catalina  jealous  ; 
She  touch'd  the  organ ;  I  could  stand 

For  hours  and  hours  and  blow  the  bellows. 

She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home, 

Well  fill'd  with  all  an  album's  glories  ; 
Paintings  of  butterflies  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trimming,  Persian  stories  ; 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo, 

Fierce  odes  to  famine  and  to  slaughter ; 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Laboo, 

And  recipes  of  elder  water. 

And  she  was  flatter'd,  worshipp'd,  bored. 

Her  steps  were  watch'd,  her  dress  was  noted, 

Her  poodle  dog  was  quite  adored, 
Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted. 


142  THE     BELLE     OE     THE     BALL. 

She  laugh'd,  and  every  heart  was  glad, 
As  if  the  taxes  were  abolish'd ; 

She  frown'd,  and  every  look  was  sad, 
As  if  the  opera  were  demolish' d. 

She  smil'd  on  many  just  for  fun — 

I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it ; 
I  was  the  first,  the  only  one 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute  ; 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so. 

In  phrase  which  was  divinely  moulded  ; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand,  and  oh  ! 

How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded ! 

Our  love  vras  like  most  other  loves — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver ; 
A  rosebud  and  a  pair  of  gloves. 

And  "  Fly  Not  Yet,"  upon  the  river ; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir. 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted, 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair. 

The  usual  vows — and  then  we  parted. 

We  parted — months  and  years  roll'd  by  ; 

We  met  again  four  summers  after ; 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh — 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter ; 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell. 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers ; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room  belle. 

But  only  Mrs. — Something — Rogers, 


A  FRAGMENT  OF  A  BALLAD  : 

TEACHING    HOW   POETRY    IS  BEST    PAID    FOR. 

Non  voglio  ceuto  scudi. — Song. 

Oh  say  not  that  the  minstrel's  art, 

The  pleasant  gift  of  verse, 
Though  his  hopes  decay,  though  his  friends  depart, 

Can  ever  be  a  curse ; — 
Though  sorrow  reign  within  his  heart, 

And  Penury  hold  his  purse. 

Say  not  his  toil  is  profitless ; — 

Though  he  charm  no  rich  relation, 
The  Fairies  all  his  labors  bless 

With  such  remuneration. 
As  Mr.  Hume  would  soon  confess 

Beyond  his  calculation. 

Annuities,  and  three  per  cents, 

Little  cares  he  about  them ; 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes,  and  rents, 

He  rambles  on  without  them : 
But  love,  and  noble  sentiments, — 

Oh,  never  bid  him  doubt  them ! 


144  A     FRAGMENT     OF     A     BALLAD. 

Young  FJorice  rose  from  his  humble  bed, 
And  prayed  as  a  good  youth  should  ; 

And  forth  he  sped,  with  a  lightsome  tread, 
Into  the  neighboring  wood ; 

He  knew  where  the  berries  were  ripe  and  red. 
And  where  the  old  oak  stood. 

And  as  he  lay  at  the  noon  of  day, 

Beneath  the  ancient  tree, 
A  grayhaired  pilgrim  passed  that  way  ; 

A  holy  man  was  he. 
And  he  was  wending  forth  to  pray 

At  a  shrine  in  a  far  countrie. 

Oh,  his  was  a  weary  wandering. 

And  a  song  or  two  might  cheer  him. 

The  pious  youth  began  to  sing, 

As  the  ancient  man  drew  near  him  ; 

The  lark  was  mute  as  he  touched  the  string. 
And  the  thrush  said,  "  Hear  him,  hear  him  !" 

He  sang  high  tales  of  the  martyred  braye ; 

Of  the  good,  and  pure,  and  just ; 
Who  have  gone  into  the  silent  grave, 

In  such  deep  faith  and  trust, 
That  the  hopes  and  thoughts  which  sain  and  save 

Spring  from  their  buried  dust. 

The  fair  of  face,  and  the  stout  of  limb, 

Meek  maids,  and  grandsires  hoary, 
Who  have  sung  on  the  cross  their  rapturous  hymn, 

As  they  passed  to  their  doom  of  glory  ; — 


A     FRAGMENT     OF     A     BALLA3.  145 

Their  radiant  fame  is  never  dim, 
Nor  their  names  erased  from  story. 

Time  spares  the  stone  where  sleep  the  dead 

With  angels  watching  round  them  ; 
The  mourner's  grief  is  comforted, 

As  he  looks  on  the  chains  that  bound  them ; 
And  peace  is  shed  on  the  murderer's  head, 

And  he  kisses  the  thorns  that  crowned  them. 

Such  tales  he  told ;  and  the  pilgrim  heard 

In  a  trance  of  voiceless  pleasure  ; 
For  the  depths  of  his  inmost  soul  were  stirred, 
By  the  sad  and  solemn  measure  : 
"  I  give  thee  my  blessing," — was  his  word ; 
"  It  is  all  I  have  of  treasure  !" 


A  little  child  came  bounding  by, 

And  he,  in  a  fragrant  bower, 
Had  found  a  gorgeous  butterfly. 

Rare  spoil  for  a  nursery  dower, 
Which,  with  fierce  step,  and  eager  eye, 

He  chased  from  flower  to  flower. 

"  Come  hither,  come  hither,"  'gan  Florice  call ; 

And  the  urchin  left  his  fun ; 
So  from  the  hall  of  poor  Sir  Paul 

Retreats  the  baffled  dun  ; 
So  Ellen  parts  from  the  village  ball, 

Where  she  leaves  a  heart  half  won. 


146  A     FRAGMENT     OF     A     BALLAD. 

Then  Florice  did  the  child  caress, 

And  sang  his  sweetest  songs : 
Their  theme  was  of  the  gentleness 

Which  to  the  soul  belongs, 
Ere  yet  it  knows  the  name  or  dress 

Of  human  rights  and  wrongs. 

And  of  the  wants  which  make  agree 

All  parts  of  this  vast  plan ; 
How  life  is  in  whate'er  we  see, 

And  only  life  in  man  : — 
What  matter  where  the  less  may  be, 

And  where  the  longer  span  ? 

And  how  the  heart  grows  hard  without 

Soft  Pity's  freshenin<T  dews  ; 
And  how  when  any  life  goes  out 

Some  little  pang  ensues  ; — 
Facts  which  great  soldiers  often  doubt, 

And  v.'its  Avho  write  reviews. 

Oh,  Song  hath  power  o'er  Nature's  springs. 
Though  deep  the  nymph  has  laid  them  ! 

The  child  gazed,  gazed,  on  gilded  wings. 
As  the  next  light  breeze  displayed  them ; 

But  he  felt  the  while  that  the  meanest  things 
Are  dear  to  him  that  made  them ! 


The  sun  went  down  behind  the  hill. 
The  breeze  was  gi'owing  colder 


A     FRAGMENT     OF     A     BALLAD.  147 

But  there  the  minstrel  lingered  still ; 

And  amazed  the  chance  beholder, 
Musing  beside  a  rippling  rill, 

With  a  harp  upon  his  shoulder. 

And  soon,  on  a  graceful  steed  and  tame, 

A  sleek  Arabian  mare, 
The  Lady  Juliana  came. 

Riding  to  take  the  air. 
With  lords  of  fame,  at  whose  proud  name 

A  radical  -would  swear. 

The  minsti'el  touched  his  lute  again. — 

It  was  more  than  a  Sultan's  crown. 
When  the  lady  checked  her  bridle  rein. 

And  lit  from  her  palfrey  down : — 
What  would  you  give  for  such  a  strain, 

Rees,  Longman.  Orme,  and  Brown  1 

He  sang  of  Beauty's  dazzling  eyes. 

Of  Beauty's  melting  tone  ; 
And  how  her  praise  is  a  richer  prize 

Than  the  gems  of  Persia's  throne  ; 
And  her  love  a  bliss  which  the  coldly  wise 

Have  never,  never  known. 

He  told  how  the  valiant  scoff  at  fear. 

When  the  sob  of  her  grief  is  heard  ; 
How  they  couch  the  spear  for  a  smile  or  tear 

How  they  die  for  a  single  word  ; — 
Things  which,  I  own,  to  me  appear 

Exceedingly  absurd. 


148  A     FRAGMENT     OF     A     BALLAD. 

The  Lady  soon  had  heard  enough  : 
She  turned  to  hear  Sir  Denys 

Discourse,  in  language  vastly  gruff, 
About  his  skill  at  Tennis ; 

While  smooth  Sir  Guy  described  the  slnlT 
His  mistress  wore  at  Venice. 

The  Lady  smiled  one  radiant  smile, 

And  the  Lady  rode  away. — 
There  is  not  a  lady  in  all  our  Isle, 

I  have  heard  a  Poet  say, 
Who  can  listen  more  than  a  little  while 

To  a  poet's  sweetest  lay. 


His  mother's  voice  was  fierce  and  shrill, 

As  she  set  the  milk  and  fruit : 
"  Out  on  thine  unrevrarded  skill. 

And  on  thy  vagrant  lute ; 
Let  the  strings  be  broken  an  thev  will, 

And  the  beggar  lips  be  mute !" 

Peace,  peace  ! — the  Pilgrim  as  he  went 

Forgot  the  minstrel's  song  ; 
But  the  blessing  that  his  wan  lips  sent 

Will  guard  the  minstrel  long  ; 
And  keep  his  spirit  innocent, 

And  turn  his  hand  from  wrong. 

Belike  the  child  had  little  thougrht 
Of  the  moral  the  minstrel  drew  ; 

But  the  dream  of  a  deed  of  kindness  wrought- 
Brings  it  not  peace  to  you  1 


A    FRAOMENT     OF     A     BALLAD.  149 

And  doth  not  a  lesson  of  virtue  taught 
Teach  him  that  teaches  too  1 

And  if  the  Lady  sighed  no  sigh 

Por  the  minstrel  or  his  hymn  ; — 
But  when  he  shall  lie  'neath  the  moonlit  sky, 

Or  lip  the  goblet's  brim, 
What  a  star  in  the  midst  of  memory 

Her  smile  will  be  to  him  ! 


150  LAMENT     FOR     BOTH  WELL     BRIGO. 


THE  COVENANTER'S  LAMENT  FOR  BOTH 
WELL  BRIGG. 


The  men  of  sin  prevail ! 
Once  more  the  prince  of  this  world  lifts  his  horn  : 
Judah  is  scattered  as  the  chaff  is  borne 

Before  the  stormy  gale. 

Where  are  our  brethren  ?  where 
Tlie  good  and  true,  the  terrible  and  fleet  ? 
They  whom  we  loved,  with  whom  we  sat  at  meat, 

With  whom  we  kneeled  in  prayer? 

Mangled  and  marred  they  lie. 
Upon  the  bloody  pillow  of  their  rest : 
Stern  Dalzell  smiles,  and  Clavers  with  a  jest 

Spurs  his  fierce  charger  by. 

So  let  our  foes  rejoice  ; — 
We  to  the  Lord,  who  hears  their  impious  boasts, 
Will  call  for  comfort ;  to  the  God  of  Hosts 

We  will  lift  up  our  voice. 


LAMENT     FOR     BOTHWELL     BRIGG.  151 

Give  ear  uuto  our  song  ; 
For  -we  are  wandering  o'er  our  native  land, 
As  sheep  that  have  no  shepherd ;  and  the  hand 

Of  wicked  men  is  strong. 

Only  to  thee  we  bow. 
Our  lips  have  drained  the  fury  of  thy  cup ; 
And  the  deep  murmurs  of  our  hearts  go  up 

To  heaven  for  vengeance  now. 

Avenge, — oh,  not  our  years 
Of  pain  and  wrong ;  the  blood  of  martyrs  shed ; 
Tlie  ashes  heaped  upon  the  hoary  head  ; 

The  maiden's  silent  tears ; 

The  babe's  bread  torn  away  ; 
The  harvest  blasted  by  the  war-steed's  hoof ; 
The  red  flame  wreathing  o'er  the  cottage  roof ; 

Judge  not  for  these  to-day ! 

Is  not  thine  own  dread  rod 
Mocked  by  the  proud,  thy  holy  book  disdained, 
Thy  name  blasphemed,  thy  temple's  courts  profaned  ? 

Avenge  thyself,  O  God  ! 

Break  Pharaoh's  iron  crown ; 
Bind  with  new  chains  their  nobles  and  their  kings ; 
Wash  from  thy  house  the  blood  of  unclean  things ; 

And  hurl  their  Dagon  down  ! 

Come  in  thine  own  good  time  ! 
We  will  abide  :  we  have  not  turned  from  thee ; 
Though  in  a  world  of  grief  our  portion  be, 

Of  bitter  grief,  and  crime. 


152  LAMENT     FOR     BOTH  WELL     BRIGa. 

Be  thou  our  guard  and  guide  ! 
Forth  from  the  spoiler's  synagogue  we  go, 
That  we  may  worship  where  the  torrents  flow, 

And  where  the  whirlwinds  ride. 

From  lonely  rocks  and  caves 
We  will  pour  forth  our  sacrifice  of  prayer. — 
On,  brethren,  to  the  mountains  !     Seek  we  there 

Safe  temples,  quiet  graves! 


HOPE  AND  LOVE. 


One  day,  through  fancy's  telescope, 

Which  is  my  richest  treasure, 
I  saw,  dear  Susan,  Love  and  Hope 

Set  out  in  search  of  Pleasure  : 
All  mirth  and  smiles  I  saw  them  go ; 

Each  was  the  other's  banker  ; 
For  Hope  took  up  her  brother's  bow, 

And  Love,  his  sister's  anchor. 

They  rambled  on  o'er  vale  and  hill, 

They  passed  by  cot  and  tower ; 
Through  summer's  glow  and  winter's  chill, 

Through  sunshine  and  through  shower  : 
But  what  did  those  fond  playmates  care 

For  climate,  or  for  weather  1 
All  scenes  to  them  were  bright  and  fair, 

On  which  they  gazed  together. 

Sometimes  they  turned  aside  to  bless 
Some  Muse  and  her  wild  numbers, 
Or  breathe  a  dream  of  holiness 

» 

On  Beauty's  quiet  slumbers  ; 

1^* 


154  HOPE     AND     LOVE. 

"  Ply  on,"  said  Wisdom,  with  cold  sneers ; 

"  I  teach  my  friends  to  doubt  you  ;"     ~ 
"  Come  back,"  said  Age,  with  bitter  tears, 

"  My  heart  is  cold  without  you." 

When  Poverty  beset  their  path, 

And  threatened  to  divide  them. 
They  coaxed  away  the  beldame's  wrath, 

Ere  she  had  breath  to  chide  them, 
By  vowing  all  her  rags  were  silk, 

And  all  her  bitters,  honey, 
And  showing  taste  for  bread  and  milk, 

And  utter  scorn  of  money. 

They  met  stern  Danger  in  their  way, 

Upon  a  ruin  "seated  ; 
Before  him  kings  had  quaked  that  day, 

And  armies  had  retreated  : 
But  he  vras  robed  in  such  a  cloud, 

As  Love  and*Hope  came  near  him, 
That  though  he  thundered  long  and  loud, 

They  did  not  see  or  hear  him. 

A  gray-beard  joined  them.  Time  by  name  ; 

And  Love  was  nearly  crazy. 
To  find  that  he  was  very  lame, 

And  also  very  lazy  : 
Hope,  as  he  listened  to  her  tale, 

Tied  wings  upon  his  jacket ; 
And  then  they  far  outran  the  mail, 

And  far  outsailed  the  packet. 


HOPE     AND     LOVE.  155 

And  so,  when  they  had  safely  passed 

O'er  many  a  land  and  billow, 
Before  a  grave  they  stopped  at  last, 

Beneath  a  weeping  willow  : 
The  moon  upon  the  humble  mound 

Her  softest  light  was  flinging  ; 
And  from  the  thickets  all  around 

Sad  nightingales  were  singing. 

'  I  leave  you  here,"  quoth  Father  Time, 

As  hoarse  as  any  raven  ; 
And  love  kneeled  down  to  spell  the  rhyme 

Upon  the  rude  stone  graven  : 
But  Hope  looked  onward,  calmly  brave ; 

And  whispered,  "  Dearest  brother. 
We're  parted  on  this  side  the  grave, — 

We'll  meet  upon  the  other." 


PRIVATE  THEATRICALS 


LADY  ARABELLA  FUSTIAN  TO  LORD  CLARENCE  FUSTIAN. 


-Sweet,  when  Actors  first  appear, 


The  loud  collision  of  applauding  gloves  ! 

Moultrie. 

Your  labors,  my  talented  brother, 

Are  happily  over  at  last ; 
They  tell  me,  that,  somehow  or  other, 

The  bill  is  rejected, — or  passed  : 
And  now  you'll  be  coming,  I'm  certain, 

As  fast  as  four  posters  can  crawl, 
To  help  us  to  draw  up  our  curtain, 

As  usual,  at  Fustian  Hall. 

Arrangements  are  nearly  completed ; 

But  still  we've  a  lover  or  two. 
Whom  Lady  Albina  entreated. 

We'd  keep  at  all  hazards  for  you  : 
Sir  Arthur  makes  horrible  faces, — 

Lord  John  is  q  trifle  too  tall, — 
And  yours  are  the  safest  embraces 

To  faint  in,  at  Fustian  Hall. 


PRIVATE     THEATRICALS.  157 

Come,  Clarence  ; — it's  really  enchanting 

To  listen  and  look  at  the  rout : 
We're  all  of  us  puffing,  and  panting, 

And  raving,  and  running  about ; 
Here  Kitty  and  Adelaide  bustle  ; 

There  Andrew  and  Anthony  bawl ;  \ 

Flutes  murmur,  chains  rattle,  robes  rustle, 

In  chorus,  at  Fustian  Hall. 

By  the  bye,  there  are  two  or  three  matters, 

We  want  you  to  bring  us  from  town  ; 
The  Inca's  white  plumes  from  the  hatter's, 

A  nose  and  a  hump  for  the  Clown  : 
We  want  a  few  harps  for  our  banquet, 

We  want  a  few  masks  for  our  ball : 
And  steal  from  your  wise  friend  Bosanquet 

His  white  wig,  for  Fustian  Hall. 

• 
Huncamunca  must  have  a  huge  saber, 

Friar  Tuck  has  forgotten  his  cowl : 
And  we're  quite  at  a  stand-still  with  Weber, 

For  want  of  a  lizard  and  owl : 
And  then  for  our  funeral  procession, 

Pray  get  us  a  love  of  a  pall ; 
Or  how  shall  we  make  an  impression 

On  feelings,  at  Fustian  Hall  ? 

And,  Clarence,  you'll  really  delight  us, 
If  you'll  do  your  endeavor  to  bring 

From  the  Club  a  young  person  to  write  us 
Our  prologue,  and  that  sort  of  thing  ; 


158  PRIVATE     THEATRICALS. 

Poor  Crotchet,  who  did  them  supremely, 
Is  gone,  for  a  judge,  to  Bengal ; 

I  fear  we  shall  miss  him  extremely, 
This  season,  at  Fustian  Hall. 

Come,  Clarence  ; — your  idol  Albina 

Will  make  a  sensation,  I  feel ; 
"We  all  think  there  never  was  seen  a 

Performer,  so  like  the  O'Neill. 
At  rehearsals,  her  exquisite  fancy 

Has  deeply  affected  us  all ; 
For  one  tear  that  trickles  at  Drury, 

There'll  be  twenty  at  Fustian  Hall. 

Dread  objects  are  scattered  before  her, 
On  purpose  to  hai*row  her  soul ; 

She  stares,  till  a  deep  spell  comes  o'er  her, 
At  a  knife,  or  a  cross,  or  a  bowl. 

* 

The  sword  never  seems  to  alarm  her. 
That  hangs  on  a  peg  to  the  w\all, 

And-she  doats  on  thy  rusty  old  armor. 
Lord  Fustian,  of  Fustian  Hall. 

She  stabbed  a  bright  mirror  this  morning, — 

Poor  Kitty  was  quite  out  of  breath, — 
And  trampled,  in  anger  and  scorning, 

A  bonnet  and  feathers  to  death. 
But  hark, — I've  a  part  in  the  Stranger, — 

There's  the  Prompter's  detestable  call : 
Come,  Clarence, — our  Eomeo  and  Eanger, 

We  want  you  at  Fustian  Hall. 


ALEXANDER  AND  DIOGENES. 

Diogenes  Alexandre  roganti  lit  diceret,  Si  quid  opus  esset,  "  nunc 
quidem  pauUiilum,"  inquit,  "a  sole." — Cicero  Tusc.  Disp. 

Slowly  the  monarch  turned  aside  : 
But  when  his  gfance  of  youthful  pride 
Rested  upon  the  warriors  gray 
Who  bore  his  lance  and  shield  that  day, 
And  the  long  line  of  spears,  that  came 
Through  the  far  grove  like  waves  of  flarne, 
His  forehead  burned,  his  pulse  beat  high. 
More  darkly  flashed  his  shifting  eye," 
And  visions  of  the  battle-plain 
Came  bursting  on  his  soul  again. 

The  old  man  drew  his  gaze  away 
Right  gladly  from  that  long  array, 
As  if  their  presence  were  a  blight 
Of  pain  and  sickness  to  his  sight ; 
And  slowly  folding  o'er  his  breast 
The  fragments  of  his  tattered  vest. 
As  was  his  wont,  unasked,  unsought, 
Gave  to  the  winds  his  muttered  thought. 


160  ALEXANDER     AND     DIOGENES. 

Naming  no  name  of  friend  or  foe, 
And  reckless  if  they  heard  or  no. 

"  Ay,  go  thy  way,  thou  painted  thing, 
Puppet,  which  mortals  call  a  king, 
Adorning  thee  with  idle  gems, 
With  drapery  and  diadems, 
And  scarcely  guessing,  that  beneath 
The  purple  robe  and  laurel  wreath, 
There's  nothing  but  the  common  slime 
Of  human  clay  and  human  crime ! — • 
My  rags  are  not  so  rich, — but  they 
Will  serve  as  well  to  cloak  decay. 

*'  And  ever  round  thy  jeweled  brow 
False  slaves  and  falser  friends  will  bow  ; 
And  Flattery, — as  varnish  flings 
A  baseness  on  the  brightest  things, — 
Will  make  the  monarch's  deeds  appear 
All  Avorthless  to  the  monarch's  ear. 
Till  thou  wilt  turn  and  think  that  Fame, 
So  vilely  drest  is  worse  than  shame  ! — 
The  gods  be  thanked  for  all  their  mercies, 
Diogenes  hears  naught  but  curses! 

"  And  thou  wilt  banquet ! — air  and  sea 
Will  render  up  their  hoards  for  thee ; 
And  golden  cups  for  thee  will  hold 
Rich  nectar,  richer  than  the  gold. 
The  cunning  caterer  still  must  share 
The  dainties  which  his  toils  prepare : 


ALEXANDER  AND  DIOGENES.       IGl 

The  page's  lip  must  taste  the  wine 
Before  he  fills  the  cup  for  thine ! — 
Wilt  feast  with  me  on  Hecate's  cheer  ? 
I  dread  no  royal  hemlock  here! 

"  And  night  will  come ;  and  thou  wilt  lie 
Beneath  a  purple  canopy, 
With  lutes  to  lull  thee,  flowers  to  shed 
Their  feverish  fragrance  round  thy  bed, 
A  princess  to  unclasp  thy  crest. — 
A  Spartan  spear  to  guard  thy  rest. — 
Dream,  happy  one  ! — thy  dreams  will  be 
Of  danger  and  of  perfidy  ; — 
The  Persian  lance, — the  Carian  club  ! — 
I  shall  sleep  sounder  in  my  tub  ! 

"  A  nd  thou  wilt  pass  away,  and  have 
A  marble  mountain  o'er  thy  grave. 
With  pillars  tall,  and  chambers  vast. 
Fit  palace  for  the  worm's  repast ! — 
I  too  shall  perish  ! — let  them  call 
The  vulture  to  my  funeral ; 
The  Cynic's  staff,  the  Cynic's  den, 
Are  all  he  leaves  his  fellow  men, — 
Heedless  how  this  corruption  fares, — 
Yea,  heedless  though  it  mix  with  theirs  !" 


UTOPIA. 


"  I  can  dream,  sir, 

If  I  eat  well  and  sleep  well." 

The  Mad  Jjycer. 


If  I  could  scare  the  sun  away, 

No  light  should  ever  shine ; 
If  I  could  bid  the  clouds  obey, 

Thick  darkness  should  be  mine  ; 
Where'er  my  weary  footsteps  roam, 

I  hate  whate'er  I  see ; 
And  fancy  builds  a  fairer  home 

In  slumber's  hour  for  me. 

I  had  a  vision  yesternight 

Of  a  fairer  land  than  this, 
Where  Heaven  was  clothed  in  warmth  and  Hght, 

Where  Earth  was  full  of  bliss  ; 
And  every  tree  was  rich  with  fruits, 

And  every  field  with  flowers. 
And  every  zephyr  wakened  lutes 

In  passion-haunted  bowers. 


UTOPIA. 

I  clambered  up  a  lofty  rock-, 

And  did  not  find  it  steep  ; 
I  read  through  a  page  and  a  half  of  Locke 

And  did  not  fall  asleep. 
I  said  whate'er  I  may  but  feel, 

I  paid  whate'er  I  owe  ; 
And  I  danced  one  day  an  Irish  reel 

With  the  gout  in  every  toe. 

And  I  was  more  than  six  feet  high, 

And  fortunate  and  wise  ; 
And  I  had  a  voite  of  melody, 

And  beautiful  black  eyes  ; 
My  horses  like  the  lightning  went. 

My  barrels  carried  true ; 
And  I  held  my  tongue  at  an  argument, 

And  winninor  cards  at  Loo. 


163 


o 


I  saw  an  old  Italian  priest. 

Who  spoke  withe  nt  disguise ; 
And  I  dined  with  f  Judge,  who  swore,  like  Best, 

All  libels  should  be  lies. 
I  bought  for  a  penny  a  two-penny  loaf 

Of  wheat,  and  nothing  more  ; 
I  danced  with  a  female  philosopher 

Who  was  not  quite  a  bore. 

There  was  a  crop  of  wheat  w^hich  grew 
Where  plough  was  never  brought ; 

There  was  a  noble  lord  who  knew 
What  he  was  never  taught. 


164  •  IT  T  0  P  I  A  . 

Tliere  was  a  scheme  in  the  gazette 
Por  a  lottery  without  blanks  ; 

And  a  Parliament  had  lately  met, 
"Without  a  single  Bankes. 

And  there  were  Kings  who  never  went 

To  cuffs  for  half  a  crown ; 
And  Lawyers  who  were  eloquent 

Without  a  wig  or  gown  : 
And  Statesmen  who  forehore  to  praise 

Their  eravhounds  and  their  guns : 
And  Poets  who  deserved  the  bays, 

And  did  » )t  dread  the  duns ; 

And  Boroughs  were  bought  without  a  tetit, 

And  no  man  feared  the  Pope ; 
And  the  Irish  cabins  were  all  possessed 

Of  Liberty  and  soap ; 
And  the  Chancellor,  feeling  very  sick, 

Had  just  resigned  the  seals ; 
And  a  clever  little  Catholic 

Was  hearing  Scotch  appeals. 

There  was  no  fraud  in  the  penal  code. 

No  dunce  in  the  public  schools, 
No  dust  or  dirt  on  a  private  road, 

No  shame  in  Wellesley  Pole. 
They  showed  me  a  figurante,  whose  name 

Had  never  known  disgrace ; 
And  a  gentleman  of  spotless  fame. 

With  Mr.  Bochsa's  face. 


UTOPIA.  165 

It  was  an  idle  dream — ^but  thou, 

Beloved  one  !  wert  there  ; 
With  thy  dark  clear  eyes  and  beaming  brow, 

White  neck  and  floating  hair  ; 
And  oh  !  I  had  an  honest  heart, 

And  a  house  of  Portland  Stone ; 
And  thou  wert  dear,  as  still  thou  art : 

And  more  than  dear — my  own. 

Oh  bitterness !  the  morning  broke, 

Alike  for  boor  and  bard  ; 
And  thou  wert  married  when  I  woke, 

And  all  the  rest  were  marred  > 
And  toil  and  trouble,  noise  and  steam, 

Came  back  Avith  coming  ray. 
And  if  I  thought  the  dead  could  dream, 

I'd  hang  myself  to-day. 


PALINODIA. 

Not  mine  this  lesson — but  experience's  -whicli  taught  it  me. 

There  was  a  time  -when  I  could  feel 

All  passion's  hopes  and  fears, 
And  tell  what  tongues  can  ne'er  reveal, 

By  smiles,  and  sighs,  and  tears. 
The  days  are  gone  !  no  more  !  no  more, 

The  cruel  fates  allow  ; 
And  though  I'm  hardly  twenty-four, 
I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

Lady,  the  mist  is  on  my  sight, 

The  chill  is  on  my  brow ; 
My  day  is  night,  my  bloom  is  blight, 
I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

I  never  talk  about  the  clouds, 

I  laugh  at  girls  and  boys; 
I'm  growing  rather  fond  of  crowds, 

And  very  fond  of  noise — 


PALINODIA.  167 

I  never  wander  forth  alone 

Upon  the  mountain's  brow  ; 
I  weighed  last  winter  sixteen  stone — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

I  never  wish  to  raise  a  veil, 

I  never  raise  a  sigh, 
I  never  tell  a  tender  tale, 

I  never  tell  a  lie  ; 
I  cannot  kneel  as  once  I  did, 

I've  quite  forgot  my  bow, 
I  never  do  as  I  am  bid — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now. 

I  roake  strange  blunders  every  day, 

If  I  would  be  gallant — 
Take  smiles  for  wrinkles,  black  for  gray, 

And  nieces  for  their  aunt ; 
I  fly  from  folly,  though  it  flows 

From  lips  of  loveliest  glow  ; 
I  don't  object  to  length  of  nose — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

The  Muse's  steed  is  very  fleet — 

I'd  rather  ride  my  mare  ; 
The  poet  hunts  a  quaint  conceit — 

I'd  rather  hunt  a  hare  ; 
I've  learned  to  utter  vours  and  vou. 

Instead  of  thine  and  thou ; 
And,  oh  !  I  can't  endure  a  blue ! 

I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 


1C8  PALINODIA. 

I  don't  encourage  idle  dreams 

Of  poison,  or  of  ropes  ; 
I  cannot  dine  on  airy  schemes, 

I  cannot  sup  on  hopes ! 
New  milk  I  own  is  very  fine, 

Just  foaming  from  the  cow  ; 
But  yet,  I  want  my  pint  of  wine — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now ! 

When  Laura  sings  young  hearts  away, 

I'm  deafer  than  the  deep  ; 
When  Leonora  goes  to  play, 

I  sometimes  go  to  sleep  ; 
When  Mary  draws  her  white  gloves  out, 

I  never  dance,  I  vow — 
Too  hot  to  kick  one's  heels  about ! — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

I'm  busy  now  with  State  affairs, 

I  prate  of  Pitt  and  Fox ! 
I  ask  the  price  of  I'ailroad  shares, 

I  watch  the  turn  of  stocks. 
And  this  is  life — no  verdure  blooms 

Upon  the  withered  bough  ; 
I  save  a  fortune  in  perfumes — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

Imay  be  yet  what  others  are, 
A  boudoir's  babbling  fool ; 

The  flattered  star  of  bench  and  bar, 
A  party's  chief  or  tool. 


PALlJSODiA.  109 

Come  shower  or  sunshine — hope  or  fear. 

The  palace  or  the  plough, 
My  heart  and  lute  are  broken  here — 
I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

Lady,  the  mist  is  on  my  sight, 

The  chill  is  on  my  brow. 
My  day  is  night,  my  bloom  is  blight, 
I'm  not  a  lover  now ! 


8 


SCHOOL  AND  SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 


Twelve  years  ago  I  made  a  mock 

Of  filthy  trades  and  traffics  : 
I  VFondered  what  they  meant  by  stock  ; 

I  wrote  delightful  sapphics  : 
I  knew  the  streets  of  Rome  and  Trov, 

I  supp'd  with  fates  and  furies ; 
Twelve  years  ago  I  was  a  boy, 

A  happy  boy,  at  Drury's. 

Twelve  years  ago  ! — how  many  a  thouglit 

Of  faded  paints  and  pleasures 
Those  whispered  syllables  have  brought 

From  memory's  hoarded  treasures  ! 
The  fields,  the  forms,  the  beasts,  the  books, 

The  glories  and  disgraces, 
The  voices  of  dear  friends,  the  looks 

Of  old  familiar  faces. 

Where  are  my  friends  ? — I  am  alone, 
No  playmate  shares  my  beaker — 

Some  lie  beneath  the  church-yard  stone, 
And  some  before  the  Speaker  ; 


SCHOOL     AND     SCHOOL-FELLOWS.  171 

And  some  compose  a  tragedy, 

And  some  compose  a  rondo  ; 
And  some  draw  sword  for  liberty, 

And  some  draw  pleas  for  John  Doe. 

Tom  Mill  was  used  to  blacken  eyas. 

Without  the  fear  of  sessions  ; 
Charles  Medler  loath'd  false  quantities, 

As  much  as  false  professions, 
Now  Mill  keeps  order  in  the  land, 

A  magistrate  pedantic ; 
And  Medler's  feet  repose  unscann'd. 

Beneath  the  wide  Atlantic. 

Wild  Nick,  whose  oaths  made  such  a  din. 

Does  Dr.  Martext's  duty  ; 
And  MuUion,  with  that  monstrous  chin, 

Is  married  to  a  beauty  ; 
And  Darrel  studies,  week  by  week. 

His  Mant  and  not  his  Manton  ; 
And  Ball,  who  was  but  poor  at  Greek, 

Is  very  rich  at  Canton. 

And  I  am  eight-and-twenty  now — 

The  world's  cold  chain  has  bound  me  ; 
And  darker  shades  are  on  my  brow 

And  sadder  scenes  around  me  : 
In  Parliament  I  fill  my  seat. 

With  many  other  noodles  ; 
And  lay  my  head  in  Jermyn-street, 

And  sip  my  hock  at  Doodle's. 


172  SCHOOL     AND     SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 

But  often,  when  the  cares  of  life 

Have  set  my  temples  aching, 
When  visions  haunt  me  of  a  wife, 

When  duns  await  my  waking, 
When  Lady  Jane  is  in  a  pet, 

Or  Hobby  in  a  hurry, 
When  Captain  Hazard  wins  a  bet, 

Or  Beaulieu  spoils  a  curry : 

For  hours  and  hours,  I  think  and  talk 

Of  each  remember'd  hobby  ; 
I  long  to  lounge  in  Poet's  Walk — 

To  shiver  in  the  lobby; 
I  wish  that  I  could  run  away 

From  house,  and  court,  and  levee, 
Where  bearded  men  appear  to-day, 

Just  Eton  boys,  grown  heavy  : 

That  I  could  bask  in  childhood's  sun, 

And  dance  o'er  childhood's  roses  ; 
And  find  huge  wealth  in  one  pound  one, 

Vast  wit  in  broken  noses  ; 
And  pray  Sir  Giles  at  Datchet  Lane, 

And  call  the  milk-maids   houris  ; 
That  I  could  be  a  boy  again — 

A  ha'ppy  boy  at  Drury's  ! 


TO  A  LADY. 

What  are  you,  lady? — naught  is  hvra 

To  tell  us  of  your  name  or  story  ; 
To  claim  the  gazer's  smile  or  tear, 

To  dub  you  whig,  or  daub  you  to ry. 
It  is  beyond  a  poet's  skill, 

To  form  the  slightest  notion,  whether 
We  e'er  shall  walk  through  one  quadiiJle, 

Or  look  upon  one  moon  together. 

You're  very  pretty  ! — all  the  world 

Are  talking  of  your  bright  brow's  "splendor, 
And  of  your  locks,  so  softly  curled. 

And  of  your  hands,  so  white  and  slender : 
Some  think  you're  blooming  in  Bengal ; 

Some  say  you're  blowing  in  the  city ; 
Some  know  you're  nobody  at  all ; 

I  only  feel,  you're  very  pretty. 

But  bless  my  heart !  it's  very  wrong  : 
You're  making  all  our  belles  ferocious ; 

Anne  "  never  saw  a  chin  so  long ;" 

And  Laura  thinks  your  dress  "  atrocious ;" 


174  TO     A     LAD  T. 

And  Lady  Jane,  who  now  and  then 

Is  taken  for  the  village  steeple, 
Is  sure  you  can't  be  four  feet  ten. 

And  "wonders  at  the  taste  of  people." 

Soon  pass  the  praises  of  a  face ; 

Swift  fades  the  very  best  vermilion ; 
Fame  rides  a  most  prodigious  pace ; 

Oblivion  follows  on  the  pillion ; 
And  all,  who,  in  these  sultry  rooms. 

To-day  have  stared,  and  pushed,  and  fainted, 
Will  soon  forget  your  pearls  and  plumes, 

As  if  they  never  had  been  painted. 

You'll  be  forgotten — as  old  debts 

By  persons  who  are  used  to  borrow ; 
Forgotten — as  the  sun  that  sets, 

When  shines  a  new  one  on  the  morrow ; 
Forgotten — like  the  luscious  peach, 

That  blessed  the  school-boy  last  September ; 
Forgotten — like  a  maiden  speech, 

Which  all  men  praise,  but  none  remember. 

Yet,  ere  you  sink  into  the  stream, 

That  whelms  alike,  sage,  saint,  and  martyr, 
And  soldier's  sword,  and  minstrel's  theme, 

And  Canning's  wit,  and  Gatton's  charter, 
Here  of  the  fortunes  of  your  youth 

My  fancy  weaves  her  dim  conjectures. 
Which  have,  perhaps,  as  much  of  truth 

As  Passion's  vows,  or  Cobbett's  lectures. 


TO     A     LADY. 

Was't  in  the  north  or  in  the  south, 

That  summer-breezes  rocked  your  cradle  1 
And  had  you  in  your  baby  mouth 

A  v/ooden  or  a  silver  ladle  1 
And  was  your  first,  unconscious  sleep, 

By  Brownie  banned,  or  blessed  by  fairy  ? 
And  did  you  wake  to  laugh  or  weep  1 

And  where  you  christened  Maud  or  Mary  ? 

And  was  your  father  called  "  your  grace  1" 

And  did  he  bet  at  Ascot  races  1 
And  did  he  chatter  common-place  1     , 

And  did  he  fill  a  score  of  places  1 
And  did  your  lady-mother's  charms 

Consist  in  picklings,  broilings,  bastings'? 
Or  did  she  prate  about  the  arms 

Her  brave  forefather  won  at  Hastings  ? 

Where  v/ere  you  "  finished?"  tell  me  where! 

Was  it  at  Chelsea,  or  at  Chiswickl 
Had  you  the  ordinary  share 

Of  books  and  backboard,  haTp  and  physic  ? 
And  did  they  bid  you  banish  pride, 

And  mind  your  oriental  tinting  1 
And  did  you  learn  how  Dido  died, 

And  who  found  out  the  art  of  printing? 

And  are  you  fond  of  lanes  and  brooks, 

A  votary  of  the  sylvan  muses  1 
Or  do  you  con  the  little  books 

Which  Baron  Brougham  and  Vaux  diffuses? 


175 


176  TO     A     LADY. 

Or  do  you  love  to  knit  and  sew, 
The  fashionable  world's  Arachne  1 

Or  do  you  canter  down  the  Row, 
Upon  a  very  long-tailed  hackney  ? 

And  do  you  love  your  brother  James  ? 

And  do  you  pet  his  mares  and  setters? 
And  have  your  friends  romantic  names  1 

And  do  you  write  them  long,  long  letters  1 
And  are  you — since  the  world  began 

All  women  are — a  little  spiteful  ? 
And  don't  you  dote  on  Malibran  1 

And  don't  you  think  Tom  Moore  delightful  1 

I  see  they've  brought  you  flowers  to-day, 

Delicious  food  for  eyes  and  noses ; 
But  carelessly  you  turn  away 

From  all  the  pinks,  and  all  the  roses ; 
Say,  is  that  fond  look  sent  in  search 

Of  one  Avhose  look  as  fondly  answers  1 
And  is  he,  fairest,  in  the  church, 

Or  is  he — aint  he — in  the  Lancers  1 

And  is  your  love  a  motley  page 

Of  black  and  white,  half  joy,  half  sorrow? 
Are  you  to  wait  till  you're  of  age? 

Or  are  you  to  be  his  to-morrow  ? 
Or  do  they  bid  you,  in  their  scorn, 

Your  pure  and  sinless  flame  to  smother? 
Is  he  so  very  meanly  born  ? 

Or  are  you  married  to  another  ? 


TO     A     L  ADT, 


177 


Whate'er  you  are,  at  last,  adieu ! 

I  think  it  is  your  bounden  duty 
To  let  the  rhymes  I  coin  for  you, 

Be  prized  by  all  who  prize  your  beauty. 
From  you  I  seek  nor  gold  nor  fame ; 

From  you  I  fear  no  cruel  strictures; 
I  wish  some  girls  that  I  could  name 

Were  half  as  silent  as  their  pictures  I 


«« 


CONFESSIONS. 

FROM   THE    MANUSCRIPT    OF    A    SEXAGENARIAN. 

In  youth,  when  pen  and  fingers  first 

Couied  rhymes  for  all  who  choose  to  seek  'em, 
Ere  luring  hope's  gay  bubbles  burst, 

Or  Chitty  was  my  vade  mecum, 
Ere  years  had  charactered  my  brow 

With  the  deep  lines,  that  well  become  it, 
Or  told  me  that  warm  he-arts  could  grow 

Cold  as  Mont  Blanc's  snow-covered  summit. 

When  my  slow  step  and  solemn  swing 

Were  steadier  and  somewhat  brisker, 
When  velvet  collars  were  "  the  thing," 

And  long  before  I  wore  a  whisker. 
Ere  I  had  measured  six  feet  two. 

Or  bought  Havanas  by  the  dozen, 
I  fell  in  love — as  many  do — 

She  was  an  angel — hem — my  cousin. 

Sometimes  my  eye,  its  furtive  glance 

Cast  back  on  memory's  short-hand  record ; 

I  wonder — if  by  any  chance 

Life's  future  page  will  be  so  checkered ! 


CONFESSIONS.  170 

My  angel  cousin  ! — ah !  her  form — 

Her  lofty  brow — her  curls  of  raven, 
Eyes  darker  than  the  thunder  storm, 

Its  lightnings  flashing  from  their  heaven. 

Her  lip  with  music  eloquent 

As  her  own  grand  upright  piano ; 
No — never  yet  was  peri  lent 

To  earth  like  thee,  sweet  Adriana. 
I  may  not — dare  not — call  to  mind 

The  joys  that  once  my  breast  elated, 
Though  yet,  methinks,  the  morning  wind 

Sweeps  o'er  my  ear,  with  thy  tones  freighted ; 

And  then  I  pause,  and  turn  aside 

From  .pleasure's  throng  of  pangless-hearted, 
To  weep  !  No.     Sentiment  and  pride 

Are  by  each  other  always  thwarted ! 
I  press  my  hand  upon  my  brow. 

To  still  the  throbbing  pulse  that  heaves  it, 
Recall  my  boyhood's  faltered  vow, 

And  marvel — if  she  still  believes  it. 

But  she  is  woman — and  her  heart, 

Like  her  tiara's  brightest  jewel. 
Cold — hard — till  kindled  by  some  art. 

Then  quenchless  burns — itself  its  fuel— • 
So  poets  say.     Well,  let  it  pass. 

And  those  who  list  may  yield  it  credit ; 
But  as  for  constancy,  alas ! 

I've  never  known — I've  only  read  it. 


180 


CONFESSIONS. 


Love  !  'tis  a  roving  fire,  at  most 

The  cuerpo  santa  of  life's  ocean ; 
Now  flashing  through  the  storm,  now  lost — 

Who  trust,  'tis  said,  rue  their  devotion. 
It  may  be,  'tis  a  mooted  creed — 

I  have  my  doubts,  and  it — ^believers, 
Though  one  is  faithless — where's  the  need 

Of  shunning  all — as  gay  deceivers  % 

I  said  I  loved.     1  did.     But  ours 

Was  felt,  not  growled  hyasna  fashion  T 
We  wandered  not  at  moonlight  hours, 

Some  dignity  restrained  the  passion  ! 
We  loved — 1  never  stooped  to  woo ; 

We  met — I  always  doffed  my  beaver ; 
She  smiled  a  careless  "  How  d'ye  do  ? — 

Good  morning,  sir ;" — I  rose  to  leave  her. 

She  loved — she  never  told  me  so ; 
.  I  never  asked — I  could  not  doubt  it ; 
For  there  were  signs  on  cheek  and  brow ; 

And  asking !     Love  is  known  without  it ! 
'Twas  understood — we  were  content, 

And  rode,  and  sung,  and  waltzed  together ! 
Alone,  without  embarrassment 

We  talked  of  something — not  the  weather! 

Time  rolled  along — the  parting  hour 

With  arrowy  speed  brought  its  distresses, 

A  kiss — a  miniature — a  flower — 
A  ringlet  from  those  raven  tresses ; 


CONFESSIONS.  181 

And  the  tears  that  would  unbidden  start, 
(An  hour,  perhaps,  and  they  had  perished,) 

In  the  far  chambers  of  my  heart, 

I  swore  her  image  should  be  cherished. 

I've  looked  on  peril — it  has  glared 

In  fashionable  forms  upon  me,  • 

From  leveled  aim — from  weapon  bared — 

And  doctors  three  attending  on  me  ! 
But  never  did  my  sternness  wane 

At  pang  by  shot  or  steel  imparted. 
I'd  not  recall  that  hour  of  pain 

For  years  of  bliss — it  passed — we  parted. 

We  parted — though  her  tear-gemmed  cheeks, 

Her  heaving  breast  had  thus  unmanned  me — 
She  quite  forgot  me  in  three  weeks  ! 

And  other  beauties  soon  trepanned  me. 
We  met — and  did  not  find  it  hard 

Joy's  overwhelming  tide  to  smother — 
There  was  a  "  Mrs."  on  her  card, 

And  I was  married  to  another! 


A  LETTER  OF  ADVICE. 


FROM    MISS    MEDORIA    TREVILIAN,    AT    PADUA,    TO    MISS 
ARAMINTA    VAVASOUR,    IN    LONDON. 


"Enfin,  Monsienr,  un  homme  amiable: 

Voila  pourquoi  je  ne  saurais  I'aimer." 

Scrihe. 


You  tell  me  you're  promised  a  lover, 

My  own  Araminta,  next  week  ; 
"Why  cannot  my  fancy  discover 

The  hue  of  his  coat  and  his  cheek  ! 
Alas  !  if  he  looks  like  another, 

A  vicar,  a  banker,  a  beau. 
Be  deaf  to  your  father  and  mother. 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No !" 

If  he  wears  a  top  boot  in  his  wooing, 

If  he  conies  to  you  riding  a  cob. 
If  he  talks  of  his  baking  or  brewing, 

If  he  puts  up  his  feet  on  the  hob, 
If  he  ever  drinks  port  after  dinner, 

If  his  brow  or  his  breeding  is  low. 
If  he  calls  himself  "  Thompson"  or  "  Skinner," 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  !" 


A     LETTER     OF     ADVICE.  183 

If  he  studies  the  news  in  the  papers, 

While  you  are  preparing  the  tea, 
If  he  talks  of  the  damps  and  the  vapors, 

While  moonlight  lies  soft  on  the  sea, 
If  he's  sleepy  while  you  are  capricious, 

If  he  has  not  a  musical  "  Oh  !" 
If  he  does  not  call  Werter  delicious,  , 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  !" 

If  he  ever  sets  foot  in  the  city, 

Among  the  stockbrokers  and  Jews, 
If  he  has  not  a  heart  full  of  pity, 

If  he  don't  stand  six  feet  in  his  shoes, 
If  his  lips  are  not  redder  than  roses, 

If  his  hands  are  not  whiter  than  snow, 
If  he  has  not  the  model  of  noses — 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  !" 

If  he  speaks  of  a  tax  or  a  duty. 

If  he  does  not  look  grand  on  his  knees, 
If  he's  blind  to  a  landscape  of  beauty. 

Hills,  valleys,  rocks,  waters,  and  trees. 
If  he  dotes  not  on  desolate  towers. 

If  he  likes  not  to  hear  the  blast  blow, 
If  he  knows  not  the  language  of  flowers — - 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  !" 

He  must  walk  like  a  god  of  old  story. 
Come  down  from  the  home  of  his  rest ; 

He  must  smile  like  the  sun  in  its  glory. 
On  the  buds  he  loves  ever  the  best : 


184  A     LETTER     OF     ADVICE. 

And,  oh,  from  its  ivory  portal, 

Like  music  his  soft  speech  must  flow  !- 

If  he  speak,  smile,  or  walk  like  a  mortal- 
My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  !" 

Don't  listen  to  tales  of  his  beauty, 

Don't  hear  what  they  tell  of  his  birth, 
Don't  look  at  his  seat  in  the  county. 

Don't  calculate  what  he  is  worth ; 
But  give  him  a  theme  to  write  verse  on, 

And  see  if  he  turns  out  his  toe ; — 
If  he's  only  an  excellent  person, — 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No !" 


OUR   BALL. 


"Comment  1  c'estlui?  qiie  le  je  regards  encore! — c'est  quo  vrai- 
raent  il  est  bien  change ;  n'est  ce  pas,  mou  papa?" 

Les  Peemiees  Amoors. 


You'll  come  to  our  ball ; — since  we  parted, 

I've  thought  of  you  more  than  I'll  say  ; 
Indeed  I  was  half  broken-hearted 

For  a  week,  when  they  took  you  away. 
Fond  fancy  brought  back  to  my  slumbers 

Our  walks  On  the  Ness  and  the  Den, 
And  echoed  the  musical  numbers 

Which  you  used  to  sing  to  me  then. 
I  know  the  romance,  since  it's  over, 

'Twere  idle,  or  Avorse,  to  recall ; — 
I  know  you're  a  terrible  rover  ; 

But,  Clarence,  you'll  come  to  our  Ball  ! 

It's  only  a  year  since,  at  College, 

You  put  on  your  cap  and  your  gown ; 

But,  Clarence,  you've  grown  out  of  knowledge, 
And  changed  from  the  spur  to  the  crown : 


186  OUR     BALL. 

The  voice  that  was  best  when  it  faltered, 

Is  fuller  and  firmer  in  tone  : 
And  the  smile  that  should  never  have  altered, — 

Dear  Clarence  ; — it  is  not  your  own  ; 
Your  cravat  was  badly  selected, 

Your  coat  don't  become  you  at  all ; 
And  why  is  your  hair  so  neglected  1 

You  must  have  it  curled  for  our  Ball. 

I've  often  been  out  upon  Haldon 

To  look  for  a  covey  with  Pup ; 
I've  often  been  over  to  Shaldon, 

To  see  how  your  boat  is  laid  up. 
In  spite  of  the  terrors  of  Aunty, 

I've  ridden  the  filly  you  broke ; 
And  I've  studied  your  sweet  little  Dante 

In  the  shade  of  your  favorite  oak : 
When  I  sat  in  July  to  Sir  Lawrence, 

I  sat  in  your  love  of  a  shawl ; 
And  I'll  wear  what  you  brought  me  from  Florence, 

Perhaps,  if  you'll  come  to  our  Ball. 

You'll  find  us  all  changed  since  you  vanished  ; 

We've  set  up  a  National  School ; 
And  waltzing  is  utterly  banished  ; 

And  Ellen  has  married  a  fool ; 
The  Major  is  going  to  travel ; 

Miss  Hyacinth  threatens  a  rout ; 
The  walk  is  laid  down  with  fresh  gravel ; 

Papa  is  laid  up  with  the  gout : 


OUR     BALL.  187 

And  Jane  has  gone  on  with  her  easels, 
And  Anne  has  gone  off  with  Sir  Paul ; 

And  Fanny  is  sick  with  the  measles, — 
And  ril  tell  you  the  rest  at  the  Ball. 

You'll  meet  all  your  beauties  ; — the  Lily 

And  the  Fairy  of  Willowbrook  Farm, 
And  Lucy,  who  made  me  so  silly 

At  Dawlish,  by  taking  your  arm  ; 
Miss  Manners,  who  always  abused  you. 

For  talking  so  much  about  Hock ; 
And  her  sister  who  often  amused  you, 

By  raving  of  rebels  and  Rock  ; 
And  something  which  surely  would  answer, 

An  heiress  quite  fresh  from  Bengal  ; — 
So,  though  you  were  seldom  a  dancer. 

You'll  dance,  just  for  once,  at  our  Ball. 

Bat  out  on  the  world ! — from  the  flowers 

It  shuts  out  the  sunshine  of  truth ; 
It  blights  the  green  leaves  in  the  bowers, 

It  makes  an  old  age  of  our  youth  : 
And  the  flow  of  our  feeling,  once  in  it, 

Like  a  streamlet  beginning  to  freeze, 
Though  it  cannot  turn  ice  in  a  minute. 

Grows  harder  by  sudden  degrees. 
Time  treads  o'er  the  graves  of  affection  ; 

Sweet  honey  is  turned  into  gall ; 
Perhaps  you  have  no  recollection 

That  ever  you  danced  at  our  Ball. 


188  OUR     BALL. 

You  once  could  be  pleased  with  our  ballads  ;— 

To-day  you  have  critical  ears  ; 
You  once  could  be  charmed  with  our  salads ; 

Alas  !  you've  been  dining  with  Peers ; 
You  trifled  and  flirted  with  many  ; 

You've  forgotten  the  when  and  the  how  ; 
There  was  one  you  liked  better  than  aii\-  ; 

Perhaps  you've  forgotten  her  now. 
But  of  those  you  remember  most  newly, 

Of  those  who  delight  or  enthral, 
None  love  you  a  quarter  so  truly 

As  some  you  will  find  at  our  Ball. 

They  tell  me  you've  many  who  flatter, 

Because  of  your  wit  and  your  song ; 
They  tell  me  (and  what  does  it  matter  1) 

You  like  to  be  praised  by  the  throng  : 
They  tell  me  you're  shadowed  with  laurel, 

They  tell  me  you're  loved  by  a  Blue ; 
They  tell  me  you're  sadly  immoral — 

Dear  Clarence,  that  cannot  be  true  ! 
But  to  me  you  are  still  what  I  found  you 

Before  you  grew  clever  and  tall ; 
And  you'll  think  of  the  spell  that  once  bound  you  : 

And  you'll  come,  won't  you  come  ?  to  our  Ball  ] 


MY  PARTNER. 


«'  There  is,  perhaps,  no  subject  of  more  universal  interest  in  tha 
■whole  range  of  natural  knowledge,  than  that  of  the  unceasing  fluctua- 
tions which  take  place  in  the  atmosphere  in  which  we  are  immersed." 


At  Cheltenham,  where  one  drinks  one's  fill 

Of  folly  and  cold  water, 
I  danced,  last  year,  my  first  quadrille, 

With  old  Sir  Geoffrey's  daughter. 
Her  cheek  with  summer's  rose  might  vie, 

When  summer's  rose  is  newest ; 
Her  eyes  were  blue  as  autumn's  sky, 

When  antumn's  sky  is  bluest ; 
And  well  my  heart  might  deem  her  one 

Of  life's  most  precious  flowers', 
For  half  her  thoughts  were  of  its  sun, 

And  half  were  of  its  showers. 

I  spoke  of  novels  : — "  Vivian  Grey" 

Was  positively  charming, 
And  "  Almack's"  infinitely  gay, 

And  "  Franlcenstein"  alarming  ; 


190  MY     PARTNER. 

I  said  "  De  Vere"  was  chastely  told, 

Thought  well  of  "  Herbert  Lacy," 
Called  Mr.  Banim's  sketches  "  bold," 

And  Lady  Morgan's  "  racy ;" 
I  vowed  the  last  new  thing  of  Hook's 

Was  vastly  entertaining ; 
And  Laura  said — "  I  dote  on  books, 

Because  it's  always  raining  !" 

I  talked  of  music's  gorgeous  fane, 

I  raved  about  Eossini, 
Hoped  Eonzo  would  come  back  again, 

And  criticised  Pacini ; 
I  wished  the  chorus  singers  dumb, 

The  trumpets  more  pacific, 
And  eulogised  Brocard's  a  plomh^ 

And  voted  Paul  "  terrific," 
What  cared  she  for  Medea's  pride 

Or  Desdemona's  sorrow  % 
"Alas  !"  mv  beauteous  listener  sisrhed. 

"  We  must  have  storms  to-morrow .!" 

I  told  her  tales  of  other  lands  ; 

Of  ever-boiling  fountains, 
Of  poisonous  lakes,  and  barren  sands, 

Vast  forests,  trackless  mountains  : 
I  painted  bright  Italian  skies, 

I  lauded  Persian  Eoses, 
Coined  similes  for  Spanish  eyes, 

And  jests  for  Indian  noses; 


MT     PARTNER. 

I  laughed  at  Lisbon's  love  of  mass. 

And  Vienna's  dread  of  treason  ; 
And  Laura  asked  me  where  the  glass 

Stood  at  Madrid  last  season. 

I  broached  whate'er  had  gone  its  rounds, 

The  week  before,  of  scandal ; 
What  made  Sir  Luke  lay  down  his  hounds, 

And  Jane  take  up  her  Handel  ; 
Why  Julia  walked  upon  the  heath, 

With  the  pale  moon  above  her ; 
Where  Flora  lost  her  false  front  teeth. 

And  Anne  her  falser  lover  ; 
How  Lord  de  B.  and  Mrs.  L. 

Had  crossed  the  sea  together  ; 
My  shuddering  partner  cried — "  Oh,  Ceil  t 

How  could  they  in  such  weather  1" 

Was  she  a  blue  ? — I  put  my  trust 

In  strata,  petals,  gases; 
A  boudoir  pedant  1 — I  discussed 

The  toga  and  the  fasces ; 
A  cockney-muse  1 — I  mouthed  a  deal 

Of  folly  from  "  Endymion  ;" 
A  saint  1 — I  praised  the  pious  zeal 

Of  Messrs.  Way  and  Simeon  ; 
A  politician  % — It  was  vain 

To  quote  the  morning  paper  ; 
The  horrid  phantoms  come  again. 

Rain,  hail,  and  snow,  and  vapor. 


191 


192  MY     PARTNER. 

Flat  flattery  was  my  only  chance, 

I  acted  deep  devotion, 
Found  magic  in  her  every  glance, 

Grace  in  her  every  motion  ; 
I  wasted  all  a  stripling's  lore, 

Prayer,  passion,  folly,  feeling, 
And  wildly  looked  upon  the  floor, 

And  wildly  on  the  ceiling  ; 
I  envied  gloves  upon  her  arm. 

And  shawls  upon  her  shoulder ; 
And  when  my  worship  was  most  warm, 

She  "  never  found  it  colder." 

I  don't  object  to  wealth  or  land  ; 

And  she  will  have  the  giving 
Of  an  extremely  pretty  hand. 

Some  thousands,  and  a  living. 
She  makes  silk  purses,  broiders  stools. 

Sings  sweetly,  dances  finely, 
Paints  screens,  subscribes  to  Sunday  schools, 

And  sits  a  lorse  divinely. 
But  to  be  linked  for  life  to  her ! 

The  desperate  man  who  tried  it, 
Might  marry  a  barocmeter, 

And  hang  himself  beside  it ! 


LETTER  FKOM 


MISS  AMELIA  JANE  MORTIMER,  LONDON, 


TO    SIR    HENRY    CLIFFORD,    PARTS 


Dear  Harry  you  owe  me  letter — 

Nay,  I  really  believe  it  is  two  ;     ' 
But  I  make  you  still  farther  my  debtor — 

I  send  you  this  brief  billet-doux. 
The  shock  was  so  great  when  we  parted, 

I  can't  overcome  my  regret : 
At  first  I  was  quite  broken-hearted, 

And  have  never  recovered  it  yet ! 

I  have  scarcely  been  out  to  a  party. 
But"  have  sent  an  excuse,  or  been  ill ; 

I  have  played  but  three  times  at  ecarte, 
And  danced  but  a  single  quadrille ; 

And  then  I  was  sad,  for  my  heart  ne'er 
One  moment  ceased  thinking  of  thee — 

I'd  a  handsome  young  man  for  a  partner, 

And  a  handsomer  still  vis-a-vis. 
9 


194  LETTER     FROM     MISS     MORTIMER. 

But  I  had  such  a  pain  in  my  forehead, 

And  felt  so  ennuied  and  so  tired, 
I  must  have  looked  perfectly  horrid — 

Yet  they  say  I  was  really  admired  ! 
You'll  smile — but  mamma  heard  a  lancer, 

As  he  whispered  his  friend,  and  said  he, 
"  The  best  and  most  beautiful  dancer 

Is  the  lady  in  white" — meaning  me  ! 

I've  been  once  to  Lord  Dorival's  soirees, 

Whose  daughter  in  music  excels — 
Do  they  still  wear  the  silk  they  call  moirees? 

They  will  know  if  you  ask  at'Pardel's — 
She  begged  me  to  join  in  a  duett, 

But  the  melody  died  on  my  tongue  ; 
And  I  thought  I  should  never  get  through  it, 

It  was  one  we  so  often  have  sung. 

In  your  last  you  desire  me  to  mention 

The  news  of  the  court  and  the  town ; 
But  there's  nothing  now  worth  your  attention. 

Or  deserving  of  my  noting  down. 
They  say  things  are  bad  in  the  city. 

And  pa  thinks  they'll  only  get  worse ; 
And  they  say  new  bonnets  are  pretty, 

But  I  think  them  quite  the  reverse. 

Lady  Black  has  brought  out  her  three  daughters, 

Good  figures  but  timid  and  shy  ; 
Mrs.  White's  gone  to  Bath  for  the  Avaters, 

And  the  doctors  declare  she  will  die. 


LETTER     FROM     MISS     MORTIMER.  195 

It's  all  oft'  'twixt  Miss  Brown  and  Sir  Stephen, 

He  found  they  could  never  agree  ; 
Her  temper's  so  very  uneven, 

I  always  said  how  it  Avould  be. 

The  Miss  Whites  are  grown  very  fine  creatures, 

Though  they  look  rather  large  in  a  room ; 
Miss  Gray  is  gone  off  in  her  features, 

Miss  Green  has  gone  oft" — w' ith  her  groom  ! 
Lord  Littleford's  dead,  and  that  noodle 

His  son  has  succeeded  his  sire ; 
And  her  Ladyship's  lost  the  fine  poodle. 

That  you  and  I  used  to  admire. 

Little  Joe  is  advancing  in  knowledge. 

He  begs  me  to  send  his  regard, 
And  Charles  goes  on  Monday  to  college. 

But  mamma  thinks  he  studies  too  hard. 
We  are  losing  our  man-cook,  he  marries 

My  French  femme  de  chambre^  Baptiste ; 
Pa  wishes  you'd  send  one  from  Paris, 

But  he  must  be  a  first  rate  artiste. 

I  don't  like  my  last  new  piano, 

Its  tones  are  so  terribly  sharp ; 
I  think  I  must  give  it  to  Anna, 

And  get  pa  to  buy  me  a  harp. 
Little  Gerald  is  growing  quite  mannish. 

He  was  smoking  just  now  a  cigar ! 
And  I'm  lugging  hard  at  the  Spanish, 

And  Lucy  has  learned  the  guitar. 


19G  LETTER     FROM     MISS     MORTIMER. 

I  suppose  you  can  talk  like  an  artist, 

Of  statues,  busts,  paintings,  virtu  ; 
But  pray,  love,  don't  turn  Bonapartist, 

Pa  will  never  consent  if  you  do ! 
"  You  were  born,"  he  will  say,  "  Sir,  a  Briton," 

But  forgive  me  so  foolish  a  fear ; 
If  I  thought  you  could  blame  what  I've  written, 

I  would  soon  wash  it  out  with  a  tear  ! 

I  pray,  sir,  how  like  you  the  ladies. 

Since  you've  quitted  the  land  of  your  Ijirth? 
I  have  heard  the  dark  donnas  of  Cadiz 

Are  the  loveliest  women  on  earth. 
The  Italians  are  lively  and  witty. 

But  I  ne'er  could  their  manners  endure  ; 
Nor  do  I  think  French  women  pretty. 

Though  they  have  a  most  charming  tournure  ! 

I  was  told  you  were  flirting  at  Calais, 

And  next  were  intriguing  at  Rome  ; 
But  I  smiled  at  their  impotent  malice, 

Yet  I  must  say  I  wished  you  at  homo  ! 
Though  I  kept  what  I  fancied  in  petto, 

And  felt  you  would  ever  be  true. 
Yet  I  dreamed  of  the  murderer's  stiletto 

Each  night — and  its  victim  was  you  ! 

I'm  arrived  at  the  end  of  my  paper, 
So,  dearest,  you'll  not  think  it  rude, 

If  I  ring  for  my  seal  and  a  taper. 
And  think  it  high  time  to  conclude. 


LETTER     FROM     MISS     MORTIMER.  197 

Adieu  then — dejected  and  lonely, 

Till  I  see  you  I  still  shall  remain, 
Addio  mio  caro — yours  only — 

Yours  ever,         Amelia  Jane. 

P.  S. — You  may  buy  me  a  dress  like  Selina's, 

Her  complexion  's  so  much  like  my  own  ; 
And  don't  fail  to  call  at  Farina's 

For  a  case  of  his  Eau  de  Cologne. 
And  whate'er  your  next  letter  announces, 

Let  it  also  intelligence  bring, 
If  the  French  have  left  off  the  deep  flounces, 

And  what  will  be  worn  for  the  Spring  ! 


TIME'S  CHANGES. 

I  SAW  her  once — so  freshly  fair 

That,  like  a  blossom  just  unfolding, 
She  opcn'd  to  Life's  cloudless  air  ; 

And  Nature  joy'd  to  view  its  mouldhig  : 
Her  smile  it  haunts  my  memory  yet — 

Her  cheek's  fine  hue  divinely  glowing — 
Her  rosebud  mouth — her  eyes  of  jet — 

Around  on  all  their  light  bestowing : 
Oh  !  who  could  look  on  such  a  form, 

So  nobly  free,  so  softly  tender. 
And  darkly  dream  that  earthly  storm 

Should  dim  such  sweet,  delicious  splendor ! 
For  in  her  mien,  and  in  her  face, 

And  in  her  young  step's  fairy  lightness, 
Naught  could  the  raptured  gazer  trace 

But  Beauty's  glow,  and  Pleasure's  brightness. 

I  saw  her  twice — an  altcr'd  charm — 
But  still  of  magic,  richest,  rarest, 

Than  girlhood's  talisman  less  warm, 

Though  vet  of  earthly  sights  the  fairest : 


time's     changes.  199 

Upon  her  breast  she  held  a  child, 

The  very  image  of  its  mother ; 
Which  ever  to  her  smiling  smiled, 

They  seem'd  to  live  but  in  each  other  : — 
But  matron  cares,  or  lurking  wo, 

Her  thoughtless,  shiless  look  had  banish'd, 
And  from  her  cheek  the  roseate  glow 

Of  girlhood's  balmy  morn  had  vanish'd ; 
Within  her  eyes,  upon  her  brow. 

Lay  something  softer,  fonder,  deeper, 
As  if  in  dreams  some  vision'd  wo 

Had  broke  the  Elysium  of  the  sleeper. 


I  saw  her  thrice — Fate's  dark  decree 

In  widow's  garments  had  array'd  her, 
Yet  beautiful  she  seem'd  to  be. 

As  even  my  revei'ies  portrayed  her ; 
The  glow,  the  glance  had  pass'd  away. 

The  sunshine  and  the  sparkling  glitter ; 
Still,  though  I  noted  pale  decay. 

The  retrospect  was  scarcely  bitter ; 
For,  in  their  place  a  calmness  dwelt. 

Serene,  subduing,  soothing,  holy; 
In  feeling  which,  the  bosom  felt 

That  every  louder  mirth  is  folly — 
A  pensiveness,  which  is  not  grief, 

A  stillness — as  of  sunset  streaming — 
A  fairy  glow  on  flower  and  leaf, 

Till  earth  looks  on  like  a  landscape  dreaming. 


200  time's    changes. 

A  last  time — and  unmoved  she  lay, 

Beyond  Life's  dim,  uncertain  river, 
A  glorious  mould  of  fading  clay, 

From  whence  the  spark  had  fled  for  ever ! 
I  gazed — my  breast  was  like  to  burst — 

And,  as  I  thought  of  years  departed. 
The  years  wherein  I  saw  her  first. 

When  she,  a  girl,  was  tender-hearted — 
And,  when  I  mused  on  later  days, 

As  moved  she  in  her  matron  dutv, 
A  happy  mother,  in  the  blaze 

Of  ripen'd  hope,  and  sunny  beauty — 
I  felt  the  chill — I  turn'd  aside — 

Bleak  Desolation's  cloud  came  o'er  me, 
And  Being  seem'd  a  troubled  tide. 

Whose  wrecks  in  darkness  swam  before  me  ! 


GOOD    NIGHT. 

Good  night  to  thee,  hxdy  ! — though  many 

Have  join'd  in  the  dance  to-night, 
Thy  form  was  the  fairest  of  any, 

Where  all  was  seducing  and  bright ; 
Thy  smile  was  the  softest  and  dearest, 

Thy  form  the  most  sylph-like  of  all, 
And  thy  voice  the  most  gladsome  and  clearest 

That  e'er  held  a  partner  in  thrall. 

Good  night  to  thee,  lady  ! — 'tis  over — 

The  waltz,  the  quadrille,  and  the  song — 
The  whisper'd  farewell  of  the  lover, 

The  heartless  adieu  of  the  throng ; 
The  heart  that  was  throbbing  with  pleasure. 

The  eye-lid  that  long'd  for  repose — 
The  beaux  that  were  dreaming_  of  treasure. 

The  girls  that  were  dreaming  of  beaux. 

'Tis  over — the  lights  are  all  dying, 

The  coaches  all  driving  away  ; 

And  many  a  fair  one  is  sighing. 

And  many  a  false  one  is  gay  ; 
9* 


202  GOOD     NIGHT. 

And  Beauty  counts  over  her  numbers 
Of  conquests,  as  homeward  she  drives — 

And  some  are  gone  home  to  their  slumbers, 
And  some  are  gone  home  to  their  wives. 

And  I,  Avhile  my  cab  in  the  shower 

Is  waiting,  the  last  at  the  dooi". 
Am  looking  all  round  for  the  flower     • 

That  fell  from  your  wreath  on  the  floor. 
I'll  keep  it — if  but  to  remind  me. 

Though  withered  and  faded  its  hue — 
Wherever  next  season  may  find  me — 

Of  England — of  Almack's — and  you ! 

There  are  tones  that  will  haunt  us,  though  lonely 

Our  path  be  o'er  mountain  or  sea ; 
There  are  looks  that  will  part  from  us  only 

When  memory  ceases  to  be  ; 
There  are  hopes  which  our  burden  can  lighten, 

Though  toilsome  and  steep  be  the  way ; 
And  dreams  that,  like  moonlight,  can  brighten 

With  a  light  that  is  clearer  than  day. 

There  are  names  that  we  cherish,  though  nameless  ; 

For  aye  on  the  lip  they  may  be  ; 
There  are  hearts  that,  though  fetter'd,  are  tameless, 

And  thoughts  unexpress'd,  but  still  free ! 
And  some  are  too  grave  for  a  rover. 

And  some  for  a  husband  too  light. 
— ^The  ball  and  my  dream  are  all  over — 

Good  night  to  thee,  lady  !  good  night ! 


JOSEPHINE. 


We  did  not  meet  in  courtly  hall, 

Where  Birth  and  Beauty  throng 
Where  Luxury  holds  festival, 

And  wit- awakes  the  song  ; 
We  met  where  darker  spirits  meet, 

In  the  home  of  Sin  and  Shame, 
W^here  Satan  shows  his  cloven  feet. 

And  hides  his  titled  name  ; 
And  she  knew  she  could  not  be.  Love, 

What  once  she  might  have  been, 
But  she  was  kind  to  me,  Love, 

My  pretty  Josephine. 

We  did  not  part  beneath  the  sky. 

As  warmer  lovers  part. 
Where  Night  conceals  the  glistening  eye, 

But  not  the  throbbing  heart ; 
We  parted  on  the  spot  of  ground 

"Where  we  first  had  laughed  at  love, 
And  ever  the  jests  were  loud  around, 

And  the  lamps  were  bright  above  : 


'204  JOSEPHINE. 

"  The  heaven  is  very  dark,  Love, 
The  blast  is  very  keen, 
But  merrily  rides  my  bark,  Love — • 
Good  night,  my  Josephine  !" 

She  did  not  speak  of  ring  or  vow, 

But  filled  the  cup  of  wine, 
And  took  the  roses  from  her  brow 

To  make  a  wreath  for  mine  ; 
And  bade  me,  when  the  gale  should  lift 

My  light  skiff  on  the  wave, 
To  think  as  little  of  the  gift 

As  of  the  hand  that  gave  : 
"  Go  gaily  o'er  the  sea.    Love, 

And  find  your  own  heart's  queen  ; 
And  look  not  back  to  me.  Love, 

Your  humble  Josephine  !" 

That  garland  breathes  and  blooms  no  more. 

Past  are  those  idle  hours ; 
I  would  not,  could  I  choose,  restore 

The  fondness  or  the  flowers  ; 
Yet  oft  their  withered  witchery 

Revives  its  wonted  thrill, 
Remembered — not  with  Passion's  sigh, 

But  oh  !  remembered  still  : 
And  even  from  your  side,  Love, 

And  even  from  this  scene. 
One  look  is  o'er  the  tide,  Love, 

One  thought  with  Josephine ! 


JOSEPHINE. 

Alas  !  your  lips  are  rosier, 

Your  eyes  of  softer  blue, 
And  I  have  never  felt  for  her 

As  I  have  felt  for  you ; 
Our  love  was  like  the  snow-flakes, 

Which  melt  before  you  pass — 
Or  the  bubble  on  the  wine,  which  breaks 

Before  you  lip  the  glass. 
You  saw  these  eye-lids  wet,  Love, 

Which  she  has  never  seen  ; 
But  bid  me  not  forget,  Love, 

My  poor,  poor  Josephine ! 


205 


MARSTON    MOOR. 


To  horse !  to  horse  !  Sir  Nicholas,  the  clarion's  note  is 

high ! 
To  horse  !  to  horse  !  Sir  Nicholas,  the  big  drum  makes 

reply ! 
Ere  this  hath  Lucas  marched,  with  his  gallant  cavaliers, 
And  the  bray  of  Rupert's  trumpets  grows  fainter  in  our 

ears. 
To  horse  !    to  horse  !  Sir  Nicholas  !     White  Guy  is  at 

the  door, 
And  the  raven  whets  his  beak  o'er  the  field  of  Marston, 

Moor. 

Up  rose  the  Lady  Alice,  from  her  brief  and  broken 
prayer. 

And  she  brought  a  silken  banner  down  the  narrow  tur- 
ret-stair ; 

Oh  !  many  were  the  tears  that  those-  radiant  eyes  had 
shed, 

As  she  traced  the  bright  word  "  Glory  "  in  the  gay  and 
glancing  thread ; 


MARSTON     MOOR.  207 

And  mournful  was  the  smile  which  o'er  those  lovely 

features  ran, 
As  she  said,  "  It  is  your  lady's  gift,  unfurl  it  in  the  van !" 

"It  shall  fluttei-,  noble  wench,  where  the  best  and  boldest 

ride 
Midst  the  steel-clad  files  of  Skippon,  the  black  dragoons 

of  Pride ; 
The  recreant  heart  of  Fairfax  shall  feel  a  sicklier  qualm, 
And  the  rebel  lips  of  Oliver  give  out  a  louder  psalm, 
When  they  see  my  lady's  gewgaw  flaunt  proudly  on 

their  wing, 
And  hear  her  loyal  soldier's  shout,  "  For  God  and  for 

the  King." 

'Tis  soon.     The  ranks  are  broken,  along  the  royal  line 
They  fly,  the  braggarts  of  the  court !  the  bullies  of  the 

Rhine  ! 
Stout  Langdale's  cheer  is  heard  no  more,  and  Astley's 

helm  is  down. 
And  Rupert  sheathes  his  rapier,  with  a  curse  and  with  a 

frown. 
And  cold  Newcastle   mutters,  as  he  follows   in  their 

flight, 
"  The  German  boar  had  better  far  have  supped  in  York 

to-night." 

The  knight  is  left  alone,  his  steel-cap  cleft  in  twain, 
His  good  bufl*  jerkin  crimsoned  o'er  with  many  a  gory 
stain ; 


208  MARSTON     MOOR. 

Yet  still  he  waves  his  banner,  and  cries  amid  the  rout, 
"  For  Church  and  King,  fair  gentlemen  !  spur  on,  and 

fight  it  out !" 
And  now  he  wards  a  Roundhead's  pike,  and  now  he 

hums  a  stave, 
And  now  he  quotes  a  stage-play,  and  now  he  fells  a 

knave. 

God  aid  thee  now,  Sir  Nicholas  !  thou  hast  no  thought 

of  fear ; 
God  aid  thee  now,  Sir  Nicholas  !  for  fearful  odds  are 

here ! 
The  rebels  hem  thee  in,  and  at  every  cut  and  thrust, 
"Down,  down,"  they  cry,  "with  Belial!  down  with  him 

to  the  dust." 
"  I  would,"  quoth  grim  old  Oliver,  "  that  Belial's  trusty 

sword, 
Tliis  day  were  doing  battle  for  the  Saints  and  for  the 

Lord !" 


The  Lady  Alice  sits  with  her  maidens  in  her  bower, 

The  gray-haired  warder  watches  from  the  castle's  top 
most  tower ; 

"  What  news  ?  what  news,   old  Hubert  ?"— "  The  bat- 
tle's lost  and  won : 

The  royal    troops  are   melting,  like   mists   before    the 
sun ! 

And  a  wounded  man  approaches ; — I'm  blind  and  cannot 
see, 

Yet  sure  I  am  that  sturdy  step,  my  master's  step  must 
be!" 


MARSTON     MOOR.  200 

"I've  brought  thee  back  thy  banner,  wench,  from  as 
rude  and  red  a  fray, 

As  e'er  was  proof  of  soldier's  thew,  or  theme  for  min- 
strel's lay  ! 

Here,  Hubert,  bring  the  silver  bowl,  and  liquor  quantum 
suff. 

I'll  make  a  shift  to  drain  it  yet,  ere  I  part  with  boots 
and  buff; — 

Though  Guy  through  many  a  gaping  wound  is  breathing 
forth  his  life, 

And  I  come  to  thee  a  landless  man,  my  fond  and  faithful 
wife  ! 

"  Sweet !  we  will  fill  our  money-bags,  and  freight  a  ship 
for  France, 

And  mourn  in  merry  Paris  for  this  poor  land's  mis- 
chance : 

For  if  the  worst  befall  me,  why  better  axe  and  rope, 

Than  life  with  Lenthal  for  a  king,  and  Peters  for  a  pope ! 

Alas !  alas !  my  gallant  Guy  ! — curse  on  the  crop-eared 
boor, 

Who  sent  me  with  my  standard,  on  foot  from  Marston 
Moor  !" 


STANZAS, 


WRITTEN    UNDER    A    DRAWING    OF    KING'S  COLLEGE    CHAPEL, 

qAMBRIDGE. 


EXTRACTED  FROM  AN  ALBUTI   IX   DEVONSHIRE. 

Most  beautiful ! — I  gaze  and  gaze 

In  silence  on  the  glorious  pile ; 
And  the  glad  thoughts  of  other  days 

Come  thronging  back  the  while. 
To  me  dim  Memory  makes  more  dear 

The  perfect  grandeur  of  the  shrine  ; 
But  if  I  stood  a  stranger  here, 

The  ground  were  still  divine. 

Some  awe  the  good  and  wise  have  felt, 

As  reverently  their  feet  have  trod 
On  any  spot  where  man  hath  knelt, 

To  commune  with  his  God ; 
By  haunted  spring,  or  fairy  well. 

Beneath  the  ruined  convent's  gloom. 
Beside  the  feeble  hermit's  cell, 

Or  the  false  prophet's  tomb. 


STANZAS.  211 

But  wheu  was  high  devotion  graced 

With  lovelier  dwelling,  loftier  throne, 
Thau  thus  the  limner's  art  hath  traced 

From  the  time-honored  stone  ? 
The  spirit  here  of  worship  seems 

To  hold  the  heart  in  wondrous  thrall, 
And  heavenward  hopes  and  holy  dreams, 

Came  at  her  voiceless  call ; — 

At  midnight,  when  the  lonely  moon 

Looks  from  a  vapor's  silvery  fold ; 
Or  morning,  when  the  sun  of  June 

Crests  the  high  towers  with  gold  ; 
For  every  change  of  hour  and  form 

]\Iakes  that  fair  scene  more  deeply  fair  ; 
And  dusk  and  day-break,  calm  and  storm, 

Are  all  religion  there. 


TWENTY-EIGHT  AND  TWENTY-NINE. 


I  HEARD  a  sick  man's  dying  sigh, 

And  an  infant's  idle  laughter, 
The  Old  Year  went  with  mourning  by — 

The  New  came  dancing  after  ! 
Let  Sorrow  shed  her  lonely  tear, 

Let  Revelry  hold  her  ladle ; 
Bring  boughs  of  cypress  for  the  bier. 

Fling  roses  on  the  cradle  ; 
Mutes  to  wait  on  the  funeral  state ; 

Pages  to  pour  the  wine ; 
A  requiem  for  Twenty-Eight, 

And  a  health  to  Twenty-Nine  ! 

Alas  for  human  happiness ! 

Alas  for  human  sorrow  ! 
Our  yesterday  is  nothingness, 

W^hat  else  will  be  our  morrow  ? 
Still  Beauty  must  be  stealing  hearts, 

And  Knavery  stealing  purses  ; 
Still  cooks  must  live  by  making  tarts, 

And  wits  by  making  verses  ; 


TWENTY-EIGHT     AND     TWENTY-NINE.       213 

While  sages  prate  and  courts  debate, 

The  same  stars  set  and  shine ; 
And  the  -wtDrld  as  it  rolled  through  Twent\--Eight, 

Must  roll  through  Twenty -Nine. 

Some  King  will  come,  in  Heaven's  good  time, 

To  the  tomb  his  father  came  to  ; 
Some  Thief  will  wade  through  blood  and  crime 

To  a  crown  he  has  no  claim  to ; 
Some  suffering  land  will  rend  in  twain 

The  manacles  that  bound  her  ; 
And  gather  the  links  of  the  broken  chain 

To  fasten  them  proudly  round  her  ; 
The  grand  and  great  will  love  and  hate, 

And  combat  and  combine  ; 
And  much  where  we  were  in  Twenty-Eight, 

We  shall  be  in  Twenty -Nine. 

O'Connell  will  toil  to  raise  the  Rent, 

And  Kenyon  to  sink  the  Nation  ; 
And  Shiel  will  abuse  the  Parliament, 

And  Peel  the  Association  ; 
And  thought  of  bayonets  and  swords 

Will  make  ex-Chancellors  merry  ; 
And  jokes  will  be  cut  in  the  House  of  Lords, 

And  thi'oats  in  the  County  of  Kerry ; 
And  writers  of  weight  will  speculate 

On  the  Cabinet's  design ; 
And  just  what  it  did  in  Twenty-Eight 

It  will  do  in  Twenty-Nine. 


214       TWENTY-EIGHT     AND     TWENTY-NIXE. 

Afid  the  Goddess  of  Love  will  keep  her  smiles, 

And  the  God  of  Cups  his  orgies  ; 
And  there'll  be  riots  in  St.  Giles, 

And  weddins;s  in  St.  George's ; 
And  mendicants  will  sup  like  Kings, 

And  Lords  will  swear  like  lacqueys ; 
•And  black  eyes  oft  will  lead  to  rings, 

And  rings  will  lead  to  black  eyes ; 
And  pretty  Kate  will  scold  her  mate. 

In  a  dialect  all  divine  ; 
Alas  !  they  married  in  Twenty-Eight, 

They  will  part  in  Twenty-Nine. 

My  uncle  will  swathe  his  gouty  limbs, 

And  talk  of  his  oils  and  blubbers ; 
My  aunt.  Miss  Dobbs,  will  play  longer  hynms, 

And  rather  longer  rubbers  ; 
My  cousin  in  Parliament  will  prove 

How  utterly  ruined  Trade  is : 
My  brother,  at  Eaton,  will  fall  in  love 

With  half  a  hundred  ladies  ; 
My  patron  will  sate  his  pride  from  plate, 

And  his  thirst  from  Bordeaux  wine  : 
His  nose  was  red  in  Twenty-Eight, 

'Twill  be  redder  in  Twenty-Nine. 

And  oh !  I  shall  find  how,  day  by  day, 
All  thoughts  and  things  look  older ; 

How  the  laugh  of  Pleasure  grows  less  gay, 
And  the  heart  of  Friendship  colder ; 


TWENTT-K  IG  11  T     AND     TWEXTT-NINE.       215 

But  still  I  shall  be  what  I  have  been, 

Sworn  foe  to  Lady  Reason, 
And  seldom  troubled  with  the  spleen. 

And  fond  of  talking  treason  ; 
J  shall  buckle  my  skait,  and  leap  my  gate, 

And  throw  and  write  my  line ; 
And  the  woman  I  worshipped  in  Twenty-Eight 

I  shall  worship  in  Twenty-Nine. 


HOW  SHALL  I  WOO  HER? 

L'oii  n'aime  bien  qu'une  seule  fois ;  c'est  la  premiere. 
Les  amours  qui  suivent  sont  moins  involoataires  ! 

La  Bruyert. 

I. 

How  shall  I  woo  her  % — I  will  stand 

Beside  her  when  she  sings  ; 
And  watch  that  fine  and  fairy  hand 

Flit  o'er  the  quivering  strings  : 
And  I  will  tell  her,  I  have  heard, 

Though  sweet  her  song  may  be, 
A  voice,  whose  every  whispered  word 

Was  more  than  song  to  me  ! 

II. 

How  shall  I  woo  her  ? — I  will  gaze. 

In  sad  and  silent  trance. 
On  those  blue  eyes,  whose  liquid  rays 

Look  love  in  every  glance ; 
And  I  will  tell  her,  eyes  more  bright. 

Though  bright  her  own  may  beain, 
Will  fling  a  deeper  spell  to-night 

Upon  me  in  my  dream. 


HOW     SHALL     I     "WOO     HER.  217 

in. 

How  shall  I  woo  her  ? — I  will  try 

The  charms  of  olden  time, 
And  swear  by  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 

And  rave  in  prose  and  rhyme ; — 
And  I  will  tell  her  when  I  bent 

My  knee  in  other  years, 
I  was  not  half  so  eloquent, 

I  could  not  speak  for  tears ! 

IV. 

How  shall  I  woo  herl — I  will  bow 

BBfore  the  holy  shrine  ; 
And  pray  the  prayer,  and  vow  the  vc  w. 

And  press  her  lips  to  mine ; 
And  I  will  tell  her,  when  she  parts 

From  passion's  thrilling  kiss. 
That  memory  to  many  hearts 

Is  dearer  far  than  bliss. 

V. 

Away !  away  !  the  chords  are  mute, 

The  bond  is  rent  in  twain ; — 
You  cannot  wake  that  silent  lute, 

Nor  clasp  those  links  again ; 
Love's  toil  I  know  is  little  cost. 

Love's  perjury  is  light  sin; 

But  souls  that  lose  what  I  have  lost, — 

What  have  they  left  to  win  ? 
"  10 


STANZAS. 


The  lady  of  his  love,  oh,  she  ■n'as  changed, 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul  1 

Byi'on. 

Go  thou,  while  in  thy  soul,  and  fill  a  throne 
Of  innocence  and  purity,  in  Heaven  ! 

Ford. 

I  KNOW  that  it  must  be, 
Yea  !  thou  art  changed — all  worshipped  as  thou  art- 
Mourned  as  thou  shalt  be !     Sickness  of  the  heart 

Hath  done  its  work  on  thee ! 

Thy  dim  eyes  tell  a  tale, 
A  piteous  tale,  of  vigils ;  and  the  trace 
Of  bitter  tears  is  on  thy  beauteous  face. 

Beauteous,  and  yet  so  pale ! 

Changed  love  !  but  not  alone  ! 
I  am  not  what  they  think  me ;  though  my  cheek 
Wear  but  its  last  year's  furrow,  though  I  speak 

Thus  in  mv  natural  tone. 


STANZAS.  219 

The  temple  of  my  youth 
Was  strong  in  moral  purpose :  once  I  felt 
The  glory  of  philosophy,  and  knelt 

In  the  pure  shrine  of  truth. 

I  went  into  the  storm, 
And  mocked  the  billows  of  the  tossing  sea ; 
I  said  to  Fate,  "  What  wilt  thou  do  to  me  ? 

I  have  not  harmed  a  worm  !"    • 

Vainly  the  heart  is  steeled 
In  Wisdom's  armor  ;  let  her  burn  her  books ! 
I  look  upon  them  as  the  soldier  looks 

Upon  his  cloven  shield. 

Virtue  and  Virtue's  rest. 
How  have  they  perished !  Through  my  onward  coul'se 
Eepentance  dogs  my  footsteps!  black  Eemorsft 

Is  my  familiar  guest ! 

The  glory  and  the  glow 
Of  the  world's  loveliness  have  passed  away  ; 
And  Fate  hath  little  to  inflict,  to-day, 

And  nothing  to  bestow  ! 

Is  not  the  damning  line 
Of  guilt  and  grief  engraven  on  me  now  1 
And  the  fierce  passion  which  hath  scathed  thy  brow, 

Hath  it  not  blasted  mine  ? 

No  matter  !  I  will  turn 
To  the  straight  path  of  duty  ;  I  have  wrought. 
At  last,  my  wayward  spirit  to  be  taught 

What  it  hath  yet  to  learn. 


220  STANZAS. 

Labor  shall  be  my  lot ; 
My  kindred  shall  be  joyful  iu  my  praise  ; 
And  Fame  shall  twine  for  me,  in  after  days, 

A  wreath  I  covet  not. 

And  if  I  cannot  make, 
Dearest !  thy  hope  my  hope,  thy  trust  my  trust, 
Yet  ^\dll  I  study  to  be  good,  and  just, 

And  blameless,  for  thy  sake. 

Thou  may'st  have  comfort  yet ! 
Whate'er  the  source  from  which  those  waters  glide, 
Thou  hast  found  healing  mercy  in  their  tide ; 

Be  happy  and  forget ! 

Forget  me — and  farewell ! 
But  say  not  that  in  me  new  hopes  and  fears. 
Or  aV)sence,  or  the  lapse  of  gradual  years, 

Will  break  thy  memory's  spell ! 

Indelibly,  within. 
All  I  have  lost  is  written ;  and  the  theme 
Which  Silence  whispers  to  my  thoughts  and  dreams 

Is  sorrow  still — and  sin  ! 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  DON  CARLOS. 

Oh  tell  not  me  of  broken  vow — 

I  speak  a  firmer  passion  now ; 

Oh  !  tell  not  me  of  shattered  chain— 

The  link  shall  never  burst  again ; 

My  soul  is  fix'd  as  firmly  here 

As  the  red  Sun  in  his  career  ; 

As  Victory  on  Mina's  crest, 

Or  Tenderness  in  Rosa's  breast, 

Then  do  not  tell  me,  while  we  part, 

Of  fickle  flame,  and  roving  heart ; 

While  Youth  shall  bow  at  Beauty's  shrine, 

That  flame  shall  glow — that  heart  be  thine. 

Then  wherefore  dost  thou  bid  me  tell 
The  tale  thy  malice  knows  so  well  1 
I  may  not  disobey  thee  ! — Yes ! 
Thou  bidst  me, — and  I  will  confess  : — 
See  how  adoringly  I  kneel — 
Hear  how  my  folly  1  reveal ; 
My  folly  ! — chide  me  if  thou  wilt. 
Thou  shalt.not — canst  not  call  it — ffidlt. 


222   THE  CONFESSION  OF  DON  CARLOS. 

And  when  my  faithlessness  is  told, 
Ere  thou  hast  time  to  play  the  scold, 
I'll  haste  the  fond  rebuke  to  check, 
And  lean  upon  thy  snowy  neck, 
Play  with  its  glossy  auburn  hair, 
And  hide  the  blush  of  falsehood  there. 

Inez,  the  innocent  and  young, 

First  snared  my  heart,  and  waked  iny  song  ; 

We  both  were  harmless,  and  untaught 

To  love  as  fashionables  ought ; 

With  all  the  modesty  of  youth, 

We  talk'd  of  constancy  and  truth ; 

Grew  fond  of  Music,  and  the  Moon, 

And  wander'd  on  the  nights  of  June, 

To  sit  beneath  the  chestnut-tree, 

While  the  lonely  stars  shone  mellowly. 

Shedding  a  pale  and  dancing  beam 

On  the  wave  of  Guadalquivir's  stream. 

And  aye  we  talk'd  of  faith  and  feelings, 

With  no  distrustings,  no  coucealings  ; 

And  aye  we  joy'd  in  stolen  glances, 

And  sigh'd  and  blush'd,  and  read  romances. 

Our  love  was  ardent  and  sincere, — 

And  lasted,  Rosa — half  a  year ! 

And  then  the  maid  grew  fickle-hearted. 

Married  Don  Jose — so  we  parted. 

At  twenty-one,  I've  often  heard. 

My  bashfulness  was  quite  absurd  ; 

For,  with  a  squeamishness  uncommon, 

I  fear'd  to  love  a  married  woman. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  DON  CARLOS.   223 

Fair  Leonora's  laughing  eye 
Again  awaked  my  song  and  sigh : 
A  gay  intriguing  dame  was  she ; 
And  fifty  Dons  of  high  degree, 
That  came  and  w^ent  as  they  were  bid, 
Dubb'd  her  the  Beauty  of  Madrid. 
Alas  !  what  constant  pains  I  took 
To  merit  one  approving  look  : 
I  courted  Valor — and  the  Muse, 
Wrote  challenges — and  billet-doux ; 
Paid  for  Sherbet  and  Serenade, 
Fenced  with  Pegru  and  Alvarade; 
Fought  at  the  Bull-fights  like  a  hero, 
Studied  small-talk, — and  the  Bolero  ; 
Play'd  the  guitar — and  play'd  the  fool ; 
This  out  of  tune — that  out  of  rule. 
I  oft  at  midnight  wander'd  out, 
Wrapt  up  in  love — and  my  capote. 
To  muse  on  beauty — and  the  skies, 
Cold  winds — and  Lenora's  eyes. 
Alas !  when  all  my  gains  were  told, 
I'd  caught  a  Tartar* — and  a  cold. 
And  yet  perchance  that  lovely  brow 
Had  still  detain'd  my  captive  vow ; 
That  clear  blue  eye's  enchanting  roll 
Had  still  enthrall'd  my  yielding  soul ; 
But  suddenly  a  vision  bright 
Came  o'er  me  in  a  veil  of  light, 

*  The  original  was  a  Spanish  idiom  which  wo  found  it  impoaaiblo 
to  render  literally  ;  we  believe  it  comes  very  near  to  the  English  ex- 
pression which  we  have  substituted. 


224   THE  CONFESSION  OF  DON  CARLOS. 

And  burst  the  bond  whose  fetters  bound  me, 
And  broke  the  spell  that  hung  around  me, 
Eecall'd  the  heart  that  madly  roved, 
And  bade  me  love,  and  be  beloved. 
Who  was  it  broke  the  chain  and  spell  1 
Dark-eyed  Castilian  ! — thou  canst  tell ! 
And  am  I  faithless  1 — wo  the  while. 
What  vow  but  melts  at  Rosa's  smile  ? 
For  broken  vows,  and  faith  betrayed, 
The  guilt  is  thine,  Castilian  maid ! 

The  tale  is  told  and  I  am  ^one  . — 
Think  of  me,  loved  and  lovely  one, 
When  none  on  earth  shall  care  beside 
How  Carlos  lived,  or  loved,  or  died ! 
Thy  love  on  earth  shall  be  to  me 
A  bird  upon  a  leafless  tree — 
A  bark  upon  a  hopeless  wave — 
A  lily  on  a  tombless  grave — 
A  cheering  hope — a  living  ray, 
To  light  me  on  a  weary  way. 

And  thus  is  Love's  Confession  done ; 
Give  me  thy  parting  benison  ; 
And  ere  I  rise  from  bended  knee. 
To  wander  o'er  a  foreign  sea. 
Alone  and  friendless, — ere  I  don 
My  pilgrim's  hat,  and  sandal  shoon— . 
Dark-eyed  Castilian  !  let  me  win 
Forgiveness  sweet  for  venial  sin  ; 
Let  lonely  sighs  and  dreams  of  thee, 
Be  penance  for  my  perjury. 


TO    JULIA, 

PREPAKIXG   FOR    THE    FIRST   SEASON    IX    TOWN. 

Julia,  while  London's  fancied  bliss 
Bids  you  despise  a  life  like  this, 

While and  its  joys  you  leave, 

For  hopes,  that  flatter  to  deceive, 

You  will  not  scornfully  refuse, 

(Though  dull  the  theme,  and  weak  the  Muse,) 

To  look  upon  my  line,  and  hear 

What  Friendship  sends  to  Beauty's  ear. 

Four  miles  from  Town,  a  neat  abode 

O'erlooks  a  rose-bush,  and  a  road  ; 

A  paling,  clean'd  with  constant  care. 

Surrounds  ten  yards  of  neat  parterre, 

Where  dusty  ivy  strives  to  crawl 

Five  inches  up  the  whiten'd  wall. 

The  open  window  thickly  set 

With  myrtle,  and  with  mignionette, 

Behind  whose  cultivated  row 

A  brace  of  globes  peep  out  for  show ; 
10* 


22G  TO     JULIA. 

The  avenue — the  burnish'd  plate, 
That  decks  the  would-be  rustic  gate, 
Denote  the  fane  where  Fashion  dwells, 
— "  Lyce's  Academy  for  Belles." 

'Twas  here,  in  earlier,  happier  days, 
Eetired  from  pleasure's  weary  maze. 
You  found,  unknown  to  care  or  pain. 
The  peace  you  will  not  find  again. 
Here  Friendships,  far  too  fond  to  last, 
A  bright,  but  fleeting  radiance  cast. 
On  every  sport  that  Mirth  devised. 
And  every  scene  that  Childhood  prized, 
And  evpry  bliss,  that  bids  you  yet 
Recall  those  moments  with  regret. 

Those  friends  have  mingled  in  the  strife 
That  fills  the  busy  scene  of  life. 
And  Pride  and  Folly — Cares  and  Fears, 
Look  dark  upon  their  future  years  : 
But  by  their  wrecks  may  Julia  learn, 
Whither  her  fragile  bark  to  turn  ; 
And,  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  fate. 
Avoid  the  rocks  they  found  too  late. 

You  know  Camilla — o'er  the  plain 
She  guides  the  fiery  hunter's  rein ; 
First  in  the  chace  she  sounds  the  horn, 
Trampling  to  earth  the  farmer's  corn. 
That  hardly  deign'd  to  bend  its  head. 
Beneath  her  namesake's  lighter  tread. 


TO     JULIA.  227 

With  Bob  the  Squire,  her  polish'd  lover, 
She  wields  the  gun,  or  beats  the  cover ; 
And  then  her  steed  ! — why  !  every  clown 
Tells  how  she  rubs  Smolensko  down, 
And  combs  the  mane,  and  cleans  the  hoof, 
"While  wondering  hostlers  stand  aloof. 

At  night,  before  the  Christmas  fire 
She  plays  backgammon  with  the  Squire ; 
Shares  in  his  laugh,  and  his  liquor, 
Mimics  her  father  and  the  Vicar  ; 
Swears  at  the  grooms — without  a  blush 
Dips  in  her  ale  the  captured  brush, 

Until her  father  duly  tired — 

The  parson's  wig  as  duly  fired — 

The  dogs  all  still  — the  Squire  asleep. 

And  dreaming  of  his  usual  leap — 

She  leaves  the  dregs  of  white  and  red, 

And  lounges  languidly  to  bed  ; 

And  still  in  nightly  visions  borne. 

She  gallops  o'er  the  rustic's  corn  ; 

Still  wields  the  lash — still  shakes  the  box, 

Dreaming  of  "  sixes  " — and  the  fox. 

And  this  is  bliss — the  story  runs, 
Camilla  never  wept — save  once ; 
Yes !  once  indeed  Camilla  cried — 
'Twas  when  her  dear  Blue-stockings  died. 

Pretty  Cordelia  thinks  she's  ill — 
She  seeks  her  med'cine  at  Quadrille  ; 


228  TO     J  tJ  L  I  A  . 

With  hope,  and  fear,  and  envy  sick, 
She  gazes  on  the  dubious  trick, 
As  if  eternity  were  laid 
Upon  a  diamond,  or  a  spade. 
And  I  have  seen  a  transient  pique 
Wake,  o'er  that  soft  and  girlish  cheek, 
A  chilly  and  a  feverish  hue, 
Blighting  the  soil  where  Beauty  grew, 
And  bidding  Hate  and  Malice  rove 
In  eves  that  ousz-ht  to  beam  with  love. 

Turn  we  to  Fannia — she  was  fair 
As  the  soft  fleeting  forms  of  air, 
Shaped  by  the  fancy — fitting  theme 
For  youthful  bard's  enamor'd  drearn. 
The  neck,  on  whose  transparent  glow, 
The  auburn  ringlets  sweetly  flow. 
The  eye  that  swims  in  liquid  fire, 
The  brow  that  frowns  in  playful  ire  ; 
Ail  these,  when  Fannia's  early  youth 
Look'd  lovely  in  its  native  truth, 
Diffused  a  bright,  unconscious  grace, 
Almost  divine,  o'er  form  and  face. 

Her  lip  has  lost  its  fragrant  dew. 
Her  cheek  has  lost  its  rosy  hue. 
Her  eye  the  glad  enlivening  rays 
That  glitter'd  there  in  happier  days. 
Her  heart  the  ignorance  of  wo 
Which  Fashion's  votaries  may  not  know. 


TO     JULIA.  229 

The  city's  smoke — the  noxious  air — 
The  constant  crowd — the  torch's  glare — 
The  morning  sleep — the  noonday  call — 
The  late  repast — the  midnight  ball, 
Bid  Faith  and  Beauty  'die,  and  taint 
Her  heart  with  frand,  her  face  with  paint. 

And  what  the  boon,  the  prize  enjoy'd, 
For  fame  defaced,  and  peace  destroyed  ! 
Why  ask  we  this  ?     With  conscious  grace 
She  criticises  silk  and  lace  ; 
Queen  of  the  modes,  she  reigns  alike 
O'er  sarcenet,  bobbin,  net,  vandyke, 
O'er  rouge  and  ribbons,  combs  and  curls, 
Perfumes  and  patches,  pins  and  pearls ; 
Feelings  and  faintings,  songs  and  sighs, 
Small-talk  and  scandal,  love  and  lies. 

Circled  by  beaux  behold  her  sit. 

While  Dandies  tremble  at  her  wit ; 

The  Captain  hates  "  a  woman's  gab  ;" 

"  A  devil  1"  cries  the  shy  Cantab  ; 

The  young  Etonian  strives  to  fly 

The  glance  of  her  sarcastic  eye, 

For  well  he  knows  she  looks  him  o'er, 

To  stamp  him  "  buck,"  or  dub  him  "  bore." 

Such  is  her  life — a  life  of  waste, 
A  life  of  wretchedness — and  taste. 
And  all  the  glory  Fannia  boasts, 
And  all  the  price  that  glory  costa, 


230 


T  0     JULIA. 


At  once  are  reckon'd  up,  in  one — 
One  word  of  bliss  and  folly Ton. 

Not  these  the  thoughts  that  could  perplex 
The  fancies  of  our  fickle  sex, 
When  England's  favorite,  good  Queen  Bess, 
Was  Queen  alike  o'er  war  and  dress. 
Then  ladies  gay  play'd  chesse — and  ballads, 
And  learnt  to  dress  their  hair — and  salads; 
Sweets — and  sweet  looks  were  studied  then, 
And  both  were  pleasing  to  the  men  ; 
For  cookery  was  allied  to  taste, 
And  girls  were  taught  to  blush — and  baste. 
Dishes  were  bright — and  so  were  eyes, 
And  lords  made  love — and  ladies  pies. 

Then  Valor  won  the  wavering  field, 
By  dint  of  hauberk  and  of  shield  ; 
And  Beauty  won  the  wavering  heart. 
By  dint  of  pickle,  and  of  tart. 
The  minuet  was  the  favorite  dance, 
Girls  loved  the  needle — boys  the  lance  ; 
And  Cupid  took  his  constant  post 
At  dinner,  by  the  boil'd  and  roast, 
Or  secretly  was  wont  to  lurk, 
In  tournament,  or  needle-work. 
Oh  !  'twas  a  reign  of  all  delights, 
Of  hot  Sir-\o'ms, — and  hot  Sir  knights  ; 
Feasting  and  fighting,  hand  in  hand, 
Fatten'd,  and  glorified  the  land  ; 


T  0     J  C  L  I  A  .  231 

And  noble  chiefs  had  noble  cheer, 
And  knights  grew  strong  upon  strong  beer ; 
Honor  and  oxen  both  werje  nourish'd, 
And  chivalry — and  pudding  flourish'd. 

I'd  rather  see  that  magic  face, 

That  look  of  love,  that  form  of  grace, 

Circled  by  whalebone,  and  by  ruffs, 

Intent  on  puddings,  and  on  puffs, 

I'd  rather  view  thee  thus,  than  see 

"A  Fashionable"  rise  in'thee. 

If  Life  is  dark,  'tis  not  for  you, 

(If  partial  rriendshi2:)'s  voice  is  true) 

To  cure  its  griefs,  and  drown  its  cares, 

By  leaping  gates,  and  murdering  hares, 

Nor  to  confine  that  feeling  soul, 

To  winning  lovers — or  the  vole. 

If  these  and  such  pursuits  are  thine, 
Julia  !  thou  art  no  friend  of  mine  ! 
I  love  plain  dress — I  eat  plain  joints, 
I  canot  play  ten  guinea  points, 
I  make  no  study  of  a  pin. 
And  hate  a  female  whipper-in. 


LLNES  TO   FLORENCji.. 

Long  years  have  pass'd  with  silent  pace, 

Florence  !  since  you  and  I  have  met ; 
Yet — when  that  meeting  I  retrace, 

My  cheek  is  pale,  my  eye  is  wet ; 
For  I  was  doom'd  from  thence  to  rove, 

O'er  distant  tracts  of  earth  and  sea. 
Unaided,  Florence  ! — save  by  love  ; 

And  unremember'd — save  by  thee  ! 
We  met !  and  hope  beguiled  our  fears, 

Hope,  ever  bright,  and  ever  vain ; 
We  parted  thence  in  silent  tears, 

Never  to  meet — in  life — again. 
The  myrtle  that  I  gaze  upon, 

Sad  token  by  thy  love  devised. 
Is  all  the  record  left  of  one 

So  long  bewail'd — so  dearly  prized. 
You  gave  it  in  an  hour  of  grief, 

AVhen  gifts  of  love  are  doubly  dear ; 
You  gave  it — and  one  tender  leaf 

Glisten'd  the  while  with  Beauty's  tear. 


LINES     TO     FLORENCE.  233 

A  tear — oh  lovelier  far  to  me, 

Shed  for  me  in  my  saddest  hour, 
Than  bright  and  flattering  smiles  could  be, 

In  courtly  hall  or  summer  bower. 
You  strove  my  anguish  to  beguile, 

With  distant  hopes  of  future  weal ; 
You  strove ! — alas !  you  could  not  smile, 

Nor  speak  the  hope  you  did  not  feel. 
I  bore  the  gift  Affection  gave, 

O'er  desert  sand  and  thorny  brake, 
O'er  rugged  rock  and  stormy  wave, 

I  loved  it  for  the  giver's  sake ; 
And  often  in  my  happiest  day, 

In  scenes  of  bliss  and  hours  of  pride, 
When  all  around  was  glad  and  gay, 

I  look'd  upon  the  gift — and  sigh'd  : 
And  when  on  ocean,  or  on  clift. 

Forth  strode  the  Spirit  of  the  Storm, 
I  gazed  upon  thy  fading  gift, 

I  thought  upon  thy  fading  form  ; 
Forgot  the  lightning's  vivid  dart, 

Forgot  the  rage  of  sky  and  sea, 
Forgot  the  doom  that  bade  us  part — 

And  only  lived  to  love  and  thee. 
Florence  !  thy  myrtle  blooms  !  but  thou, 

Beneath  thy  cold  and  lowly  stone. 
Forgetful  of  our  mutual  vow, 

And  of  a  heart — still  all  thine  own. 
Art  laid  in  that  unconscious  sleep. 

Which  he  that  wails  thee  soon  must  know, 


334  LINES     TO     FLORENCE. 

Where  none  may  smile,  and  none  may  weep, 

None  dream  of  bliss,  or  wake  to  wo. 
If  e'er,  as  Fancy  oft  will  feign, 

To  that  dear  spot  which  gave  thee  birth 
Thy  fleeting  shade  returns  again, 

To  look  on  him  thou  lov'dst  on  earth, 
It  may  a  moment's  joy  impart, 

To  know  that  this,  thy  favorite  tree, 
Is  to  my  desolated  heart 

Almost  as  dear  as  thou  could'st  be. 
My  Florence! — soon — the  thought  is  sweet! 

The  turf  that  wraps  thee  I  shall  press ; 
Again,  my  Florence  !  we  shall  meet. 

In  bliss — or  in  forgetfulness. 
With  thee  in  Death's  oblivion  laid, 
I  will  not  have  the  cypress  gloom 
To  thro,w  its  sickly,  sullen  shade, 

Over  the  stillness  of  my  tomb  : 
And  there  the  'scutcheon  shall  not  shine, 
And  there  the  banner  shall  not  wave ; 
The  treasures  of  the  glittering  mine 

Would  ill  become  a  lover's  grave : 
But  when  from  this  abode  of  strife 

My  liberated  shade  shall  roam. 
Thy  myrtle,  that  has  cheer'd  my  life 
Shall  decorate  my  narrow  home  : 
And  it  shall  bloom  in  beauty  there. 
Like  Florence  in  her  early  day ; 
Or,  nipp'd  by  cold  December's  air, 
Whither — like  Hope  and  thee — away. 


ST  AN  ii  AS. 


O'er  yon  Churchyai'd  the  storm  may  lower ; 

But,  heedless  of  the  wintry  air, 

One  little  bud  shall  linger  there, 
A  still  and  trembling  flower. 

Unscathed  by  long  revolving  years, 
Its  tender  leaves  shall  flourish  yet, 
And  sparkle  in  the  moonlight,  wet 

With  the  pale  dew  of  teai's. 

And  where  thine  humble  ashes  lie, 
Instead  of  'scutcheon  or  of  stone, 
It  rises  o'er  thee,  lonely  one, 

Child  of  obscurity  ! 

Mild  was  thy  voice  as  Zephyr's  breath, 
Thy  cheek  with  flowing  locks  was  shaded  ! 
But  the  voice  hath  died,  the  cheek  hath  faded 

In  the  cold  breeze  of  death ! 


236  STANZAS. 

Brightly  thine  eye  was  smiling,  Sweet ! 

But  now  Decay  hath  still'd  its  glancing ; 

Warmly  thy  little  heart  was  dancing, 
But  it  hath  ceased  to  beat ! 

A  few  short  months — and  thou  wert  here  ! 

Hope  sat  upon  thy  youthful  brow  ; 

And  what  is  thy  memorial  now  ? 
A  flower — and  a  Tear, 


CASSANDRA. 

"  They  hurried  to  the  feast, 

The  warrior  and  the  priest, 
And  the  gay  maiden  with  her  jeweled  brow  j 

The  minstrel's  harp  and  voice 

Said  '  Triumph  and  rejoice !' 
One  only  mourned  ! — many  are  mourning  now  ! 

"  '  Peace  !  startle  not  the  light 

With  the  wild  dreams  of  night ;' — 

So  spake  the  Princes  in  their  pride  and  joy, 
When  I  in  their  dull  ears 
Shrieked  forth  my  tale  of  tears, 

'  Wo  to  the  gorgeous  city,  wo  to  Troy  !' — 

*'  Ye  watch  the  dun  smoke  rise 

Up  to  the  lurid  skies ; 
Ye  see  the  red  light  flickering  on  the  stream ; 

Ye  listen  to  the  fall 

Of  gate,  and  tower,  and  wall ; 
Sisters,  the  time  is  come ' — alas,  it  is  no  dream  ! 


238  CASSANDRA, 

"Through  hall,  and  court,  and  porch, 

Glides  on  the  pitiless  torch ; 
The  swift  avengers  faint  not  in  their  toil : 

Vain  now  the  matron's  sighs  ; 

Vain  now  the  infant's  cries  ; 
Look,  sisters,  look,  who  leads  them  to  the  spoil  1 

"  Not  Pyrrhus,  though  his  hand 

Is  on  his  father's  brand ; 
Not  the  fell  fraqier  of  the  accursed  Steed ; 

Not  Nestor's  hoary  head  ; 

Nor  Teucer's  rapid  tread ; 
Nor  the  fierce  wrath  of  impious  Diomede. 

"  Visions  of  deeper  fear 

To-night  are  warring  here ; — 
I  know  them,  sisters,  the  mysterious  Three  ; 

Minerva's  lightning  frown, 

And  Juno's  golden  cro-wm, 
And  him  the  mighty  ruler  of  the  sounding  sea. 

"  Through  wailing  and  through  wo, 

Silent  and  stern  they  go ; — 
So  have  I  ever  seen  them  in  my  trance ! 

Exultingly  they  guide 

Destruction's  fiery  tide, 
And  lift  the  dazzling  shield,  and  poise  the  deadly  lance. 

"  Lo  !  where  the  old  man  stands, 
Folding  his  palsied  hands, 
And  muttering  with  white  lips,  his  querulous  prayer : 


CASSANDRA.  239 

'  Where  is  my  noble  son, 
My  best,  my  bravest  one, — 
Troy's  hope  and  Priam's, — where  is  Hector,  where  V 

"  Why  is  thy  falchion  grasped  ? 

Why  is  thy  helmet  clasped  ? 
Fitter  the  fillet  for  such  brow  as  thine  ! 

The  altar  reeks  with  gore ; 

Oh  sisters,  look  no  more ! 
It  is  our  father's  blood  upon  the  shrine ! 

"  And  ye,  alas  !  must  roam 

Far  from  your  desolate  home. 
Far  from  lost  Ilium,  o'er  the  joyless  wave  ; 

Ye  may  not  from  those  bowers 

Gather  the  trampled  flowers, 
To  wreathe  sad  garlands  for  your  brethren's  grave. 

"Away,  away  !  the  gale 

Stirs  the  white  bosomed  sail ; 
Hence  ! — look  not  back  to  freedom  or  to  fame  ; 

Labor  must  be  your  doom, 

Night-watchings,  days  of  gloom. 
The  bitter  bread  of  tears,  the  bridal  couch  of  shame. 

"  Even  now  some  Grecian  dame 
Beholds  the  signal  flame. 
And  waits  expectant  the  returning  fleet ; 
'  Why  Imgcrs  yet  my  lord  1 
Hath  he  not  sheathed  his  sword — 
Will  he  not  bring  my  handmaid  to  my  feet  ]' 


240  CASSANDRA. 

"  Me  too  the  dark  Fates  call ; 

Their  sway  is  over  all, 
Captor  and  captive,  prison-house  and  throne; — 

I  tell  of  others'  lot ; 

They  hear  me,  heed  me  not ! 
Hide,  angry  Phosbus,  hide  from  me  mine  own." 


SONNET    TO    ADA. 


The  touching  pathos  of  thy  low  sweet  voice 

Fell  on  my  heart,  like  dew  on  wither'd  flowers. 

And  brought  such  memory  of  departed  hours 

As  made  me  weep — yet  in  my  tears  rejoice. 

For  one  I  loved — now  lost  to  me  for  ever — 

Breathed  even  so  the  soul  of  melody. 

And — since  that  voice  has  perish'd — never,  never, 

Till  I  heard  thine,  such  sounds  had  greeted  me. 

E'en  now  thy  tones,  recall'd  by  night  and  day, 

Linger  in  Memory's  echo-haunted  cell. 

Thrilling  sweet  agony  :  nor  know  I  well 

Whether  to  chide  them,  or  to  bid  them  stay. 

At  times  I  scarce  can  bear  the  pain'd  regret 

Which  they  excite — then  cry,  Oh  do  not  leave  me  yet ! 


MY  LITTLE  COUSINS. 

E  voi  ridete  ?— Certo  ridiamo. 

Cosi  fan  tutte. 

Laugh  on,  fair  cousins,  for  to  you 

All  life  is  joyous  yet ; 
Your  hearts  have  all  things  to  pursue, 

And  nothing  to  regret ; 
And  every  flower  to  you  is  fair, 

And  every  month  is  May  ; 
You've  not  been  introduced  to  Care, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

Old  Time  will  fling  his  clouds  ere  long 

Upon  those  sunny  eyes  ; 
The  voice  whose  every  word  is  song, 

Will  set  itself  to  sighs  ; 
Your  quiet  slumbers, — hopes  and  fears 

Will  chase  their  i-est  away  ; 
To-morrow,  you'll  be  shedding  tears, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

Oh  yes ;  if  any  truth  is  found 

In  the  dull  schoolman's  theme, — 

If  friendship  is  an  empty  sound, 

And  love  an  idle  dream, — 
11 


242  MY     LITTLE     COUSINS. 

If  mirth,  youth's  playmate,  feels  fatigue 

Too  soon  on  life's  long  way, 
At  least  he'll  run  with  you  a  league, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

Perhaps  your  eyes  may  grow  more  bright 

As  childhood's  hues  depart ; 
You  may  be  lovelier  to  the  sight, 

And  dearer  to  the  heart ; 
You  may  be  sinless  still,  and  see 

This  earth  still  green  and  gay  ; 
But  what  you  are  you  will  not  be, 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

t 

O'er  me  have  many  winters  crept, 

With  less  of  grief  than  joy  ; 
But  I  have  learned,  and  toiled,  and  wept, — 

I  am  no  more  a  boy  ! 
I've  never  had  the  gout,  't  is  true. 

My  hair  is  hardly  gray  ; 
But  now  I  cannot  laugh  like  you  ; 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

I  used  to  have  as  glad  a  face. 

As  shadowless  a  brow  : 
I  once  could  run  as  blithe  a  race 

As  you  are  running  now  ; 
But  never  mind  how  I  behave. 

Don't  interrupt  your  play, 
And  though  I  look  so  very  grave. 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day. 


AKMINIUS. 

Back,  bctck  ; — he  fecars  not  Ibamin"  flood 

Who  fears  not  steel  clad  line : — 
No  warrior  thou  of  German  blood, 

No  brother  thou  of  mine. 
Go  earn  Eome's  chain  to  load  thy  neck, 

Her  gems  to  deck  thy  hilt ; 
And  blazon  honor's  hapless  wreck 

With  all  the  gauds  of  guilt. 

But  wouldst  thou  have  me  share  the  prey  ? 

By  all  that  I  have  done, 
The  Varian  bones  that  day  by  day 

Lie  whitening  in  the  sun  ; 
The  legion's  trampled  panoply, 

The  eagle's  shattered  wing, 
I  would  not  be  for  earth  or  sky 

So  scorned  and  mean  a  thing. 

Ho,  call  me  here  the  wizard,  boy. 

Of  dark  and  subtle  skill, 
To  agonize  but  not  destroy, 

To  torture,  not  to  kill. 


244  ARM  IN  I  us. 

When  swords  are  out,  and  shriek  and  shout 

Leave  little  room  fof  prayer, 
No  fetter  on  man's  arm  or  heart 

Hangs  half  so  heavy  there. 

I  curse  him  by  the  gifts  the  land 

Hath  won  from  him  and  Rome, 
The  riving  axe,  the  wasting  brand. 

Rent  forest  blazing  home. 
I  curse  him  by  our  country's  gods. 

The  terrible,  the  dark, 
The  breakers  of  the  Roman  rods, 

The  smiters  of  the  bark. 

Oh,  misery,  that  such  a  ban 

On  such  a  brow  should  be ! 
Why  comes  he  not  in  battle's  van 

His  country's  chief  to  be  ? 
To  stand  a  comrade  by  my  side. 

The  sharer  of  my  fame, 
And  worthy  of  a  brother's  pride. 

And  of  a  brother's  name  ? 

But  it  is  past ! — where  heroes  press 

And  cowards  bend  the  knee, 
Arminius  is  not  brotherless. 

His  In-ethren  are  the  free. 
They  come  around  : — one  hour,  and  light 

Will  fade  from  turf  and  tide, 
Then  onward,  onward  to  the  fight. 

With  darkness  for  our  guide. 


ARMINIUS.  245 


To-night,  to-night,  when  we  shall  meet 

In  combat  face  to  face. 
Then  only  would  Arminius  greet 

The  renegade's  embrace. 
The  canker  of  Rome's  guilt  shall  be 

Upon  his  dying  name  ; 
And  as  he  lived  in  slavery, 

So  shall  he  fall  in  shame. 


VERSES 

OH  8KEIKG  THE  SPEAKER  ASLEEP  IN  HIS   CHAIE  IN   ONE   OF  THE   DEBATE3 
OF  TOE  FIRST  BEFOICIED  PAELIAIIENT. 

Si/EEP,  Mr.  Speaker,  't  is  surely  fair 

If  you  may  n't  in  your  bed,  that  you   should  in  your 

chair. 
Louder  and  longer  now  they  grow, 
Tory  and  Radical,  Ay  and  No  ; 
Talking  by  night  and  talking  by  day. 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  sleep  while  you  may ! 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker  ;  slumber  lies 

Light  and  brief  on  a  Speaker's  eyes. 

Eielden  or  Finn  in  a  minute  or  two 

Some  disorderly  thing  will  do  ; 

Riot  will  chase  repose  away — 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  sleep  while  you  may  ! 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker.     Sweet  to  men 
Is  the  sleep  that  cometh  but  now  and  then, 
Sweet  to  the  weary,  sweet  to  the  ill, 
Sweet  to  the  children  that  work  in  the  mill. 
You  have  more  need  of  repose  than  they — 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  sleep  while  you  may  ! 


VERSES, 


247 


Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  Harvey  will  soon 
Move  to  abolish  the  sun  and  the  moon ; 
Hume  will  no  doubt  be  taking  the  sense 
Of  the  House  on  a  question  of  sixteen  pence. 
Statesmen  will  howl,  and  patriots  bray — 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  sleep  while  you  may  ! 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  and  dream  of  the  time, 
When  loyalty  was  not  quite  a  crime. 
When  Grant  was  a  pupil  in  Canning's  school, 
And  Palmerston  fancied  Wood  a  fool. 
Lord,  how  principles  pass  away — 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  sleep  while  you  may. 


I  REMEMBER  HOW  MY  CHILDHOOD  FLEETED 
I  REMEMBER,  I  remember. 


'  5 


How  mj  childhood  fleeted  by — 
The  mirth  of  its  December, 

And  the  warmth  of  its  July ; 
On  my  brow,  love,  on  my  brow,  love, 

There  are  no  signs  of  care, 
But  my  pleasure's  are  not  now,  love, 

What  childhood's  pleasure's  were: 

Then  the  bowers,  then  the  bowers 

Were  as  blithe  as  blithe  could  be, 
And  all  their  radiant  flowers 

Were  coronals  for  me: 
Gems  to-night,  love,  gems  to-night,  love, 

Are  gleaming  in  my  hair ; 
But  they  are  not  half  so  bright,  love. 

As  childhood's  roses  were. 

I  was  merry,  I  was  merry, 

When  my  little  lovers  came — 
With  a  lily,  or  a  cherry. 

Or  a  new  invented  game  : 
Now  I've  you,  love,  now  I've  you,  love, 

To  kneel  before  me  there ; 
But  you  know  you're  not  so  true,  love, 

As  childhood's  lovers  were. 


MEMORY. 

Nessun  magglor  dolore 
Che  recordarsi  del  ternpe  felici, 
Nella  miseria« 

Dante. 


Stand  on  a  funeral  mound. 

Far,  far  from  a11  that  love  thee  : 
With  a  Darren  heath  around. 

And  a  cypress  bower  above  thee : 
And  think,  while  the  sad  wind  frets, 

And  the  night  in  cold  gloom  closes, 
Of  spring,  and  spring's  sweet  violets, 

Of  summer,  and  summer's  roses. 

II. 

Sleep  where  the  thunders  flj 

Across  the  tossing  billow ; 
Thy  canopy  the  sky. 

And  the  lonely  deck  thy  pillow  r 
And  dream,  while  the  chill  sea-foam 

In  mockery  dashes  o'er  thee. 

Of  the  cheerful  hearth,  and  the  quiet  home, 

And  the  kiss  of  her  that  bore  thee. 
II* 


250  MEMORY, 


in. 


Watch  in  the  deepest  cell 

Of  the  foeman's  dungeon  tower. 
Till  hope's  most  cherished  spell 

Has  lost  its  cheering  power  ; 
And  sing,  while  the  galling  chain 

On  every  stiff  limb  fj-eezes, 
Of  the  huntsman  hurrying  o'er  the  plain, 

Of  the  breath  of  the  mountain  breezes. 

IV. 

Talk  of  the  minstrel's  lute, 

The  warrior's  high  endeavor. 
When  the  honeyed  lips  are  mute, 

And  the  strong  arm  crushed  for  ever  : 
Look  back  to  the  summer  sun. 

From  the  mist  of  dark  December ; 
Then  say  to  the  broko.-x-hearted  .one, 

"  'Tis  pleasant  to  remember  I" 


TELL  HIM  I  LOVE  HIM  YET. 

Tell  him,  I  love  him  yet, 
Ah,  in  that  joyous  time ! 

Tell  him,  I  ne'er  forget, 

Tliough  memory  now  be  crime. 

Tell  him,  when  fades  the  light 
Upon  the  earth  and  sea, 

I  dream  of  him  by  night- 
He  must  not  dream  of  me ! 

Green,  green  upon  his  brow 
The  laurel  wreath  shall  be — 

Although  that  laurel  now 
Must  not  be  shared  with  me  ! 

Tell  him  to  smile  again 

In  pleasure's  dazzling  throng, 

To  wear  another's  chain, 
To  praise  another's  song ! 

Before  the  loveliest  there, 
I'd  have  him  bend  the  knee. 

And  breathe  to  her  the  prayer 
He  used  to  breathe  to  me ! 


252  TELL     II  I  il      I      LOVE     II  I M     T  E  T . 

Tell  him,  that  day  by  day, 
Lite  looks  to  me  more  dim — 

I  falter  when  I  pray — 
Although  I  pray  for  him. 

And  bid  him  when  I  die, 
Come  to  om*  fav'rite  tree — 

I  shall  not  hear  him  sigh — 
— Nor  let  him  sigh  for  me ! 


THE    RACE.* 

The  sun  hath  shed  a  mellower  beam, 
Fair  Thames,  upon  thy  silvery  stream, 
And  air  and  water,  earth  and  heaven, 
Lie  in  the  calm  repose  of  even. 
How  silently  the  breeze  moves  on, 
Flutters,  and  whispers,  and  is  gone. 
How  calmly  does  the  quiet  sky 
Sleep  in  its  cold  serenity  ! 
Alas !  how  sweet  a  scene  were  here 
For  shepherd  or  for  sonneteer ; 
How  fit  the  place,  how  fit  the  time, 
For  making  love,  or  making  rhyme ! 
But  though  the  sun's  descending  ray 
Smiles  warmly  on  the  close  of  day 
'Tis  not  to  gaze  upon  the  light 
That  Eton's  sons  are  here  to-night ; 
And  though  the  river,  calm  and  clear, 
Makes  music  to  the  poet's  ear, 

*  Fragments  of  a  description  of  the  procession  of  Eton  boats  by 
the  river,  and  Eton  cavaliers  by  land,  to  Surly  Hall,  on  the  evening  of 
"  Election  Saturday  " — the  last  poem  written  by  Praed  while  at  Eton. 


254 


THE     RACE, 


'Tis  not  to  listen  to  the  sound 
That  Eton's  sons  are  thronging  round. 
The  sun  unheeded  may  decline, 
Blue  eyes  send  out  a  brighter  shine ; 
The  wave  may  cease  its  gurgling  moan, 
Glad  voices  have  a  sweeter  tone ; 
For,  in  our  calendar  of  bliss, 
We  have  no  hour  so  gay  as  this, 
When  the  kind  hearts  and  brilliant  eyes 
Of  those  we  know,  and  love,  and  prize, 
Are  come  to  cheer  the  captive's  thrall. 
And  smile  upon  his  festival. 

Stay,  Pegasus, — and  let  me  ask, 

Ere  I  go  onward  in  my  task, 

Pray,  reader, — were  you  ever  here 

Just  at  this  season  of  the  year  ? 

No  ? — then  the  end  of  next  July 

Should  bring  you  with  admiring  eye. 

To  hear  us  row,  and  see  us  row, 

And  cry — "  How  fast  them  boys  does  go  !" 

Lord !  what  would  be  the  cynic's  mirth. 
If  fate  would  lift  him  to  the  earth, 
And  set  his  tub,  with  magic  jump. 
Squat  down  beside  the  Brocas  clump  ! 
What  scoffs  the  sage  would  utter  there. 
From  his  unpolish'd  elbow-chair. 
To  see  the  sempstress'  handy-work. 
The  Greek  confounded  with  the  Turk, 


THE     RACE.  255 

Parisian  mix'd  \vith  Piedmontese, 

And  Persian  join'd  to  Portuguese ; 

And  mantles  short,  and  mantles  long, 

And  mantles  right,  and  mantles  wrong. 

Misshaped,  miscolor'd,  and  misplaced. 

With  what  the  tailor  calls — a  taste. 

And  then  the  badges,  and  the  boats. 

The  flags,  the  drums,  the  paint,  the  boats  ; 

But  more  than  these,  and  more  than  all, 

The  pullers'  intermitted  call, 

"Easy!"— "Hard  all!"— "Now  pick  her  up!" 

"  Upon  my  life,  how  I  shall  sup  !" 

«  *  *  *  « 

Tlie  boats  put  off! — throughout  the  crowd 

The  tumult  thickens ;  wide  and  loud 

The  din  re-echoes ;  man  and  horse 

Plunge  onward  in  their  mingled  course. 

Look  at  the  troop :  I  love  to  see 

Our  real  Etonian  Cavalry ; 

They  start  in  such  a  pretty  trim. 

And  such  sweet  scorn  of  life  and  limb. 

I  must  confess  I  never  found 

A  horse  much  worse  for  being  sound  ; 

I  v/ish  my  Nag  not  wholly  blind, 

And  like  to  have  a  tail  behind  ; 

And  though  he  certainly  may  hear 

Correctly  with  a  single  ear, 

I  think,  to  look  genteel  and  neat. 

Ho  ought  to  have  his  two  complete. 


250  THE     RACE. 

But  these  are  trifles !  off  they  go 

Beside  the  wwidering  River's  flow  ; 

And  if,  by  dint  of  spur  and  whip, 

They  shamble  on,  without  a  trip. 

Well  have  they  done  !     I  make  no  question 

They're  shaken  into  good  digestion. 

I  and  my  Muse, — my  Muse  and  I, 
Will  follow  with  the  Company, 
And  get  to  Surly  Hall  in  time 
To  make  a  Supper  and  a  Rhyme. 
*  *  *  « 

Hark  !  hark  !  a  mellow'd  note 
Over  the  water  seem'd  to  float ! 

Hark  !  the  note  repeated  ! 
A  sweet,  and  soft,  and  soothing  strain. 
Echoed,  and  died,  and  rose  again. 
As  if  the  Nymphs  of  Fairy  reign 
Were  holding  to-night  their  revel  rout, 
And  pouring  their  fragrant  voices  out. 

On  the  blue  waters  seated. 
Hark  to  the  tremulous  tones  that  flow. 
And  the  voice  of  the  boatmen  as  they  row  ! 
Cheerfully  to  the  heart  they  go. 

And  touch  a  thousand  pleasant  strings, 
Of  Triumph,  and  Pride,  and  Hope,  and  Joy, 
And  thoughts  that  are  only  known  to  Boy, 

And  young  Imaginings! 
The  note  is  near,  the  Voice  comes  clear. 
And  we  catch  its  Echo  on  the  ear. 


THE     RACE.  257 

With  a  feeling  of  delight  j 
And  as  the  gladdening  sounds  we  hear, 
There's  many  an  eager  listener  here, 

And  many  a  straining  sight. 

One  moment, — and  ye  see 
Where,  fluttering  quick,  as  the  breezes  blow, 
Backwards  and  forwards,  to  and  fro  ; 
Bright  with  the  beam  of  retiring  day. 
Old  Eton's  flag,  on  its  watery  way 

Moves  on  triumphantly  ; 
But  what,  that  Ancient  Poets  have  told, 
Of  Amphitrite's  Car  of  Gold 

With  the  Nymphs  behind,  and  the  Nymphs  before. 
And  the  Nerid's  song,  and  the  Triton's  roar. 

Could  equal  half  the  pride. 
That  heralds  the  Monarch's  plashing  oar, 

Over  the  swelling  tide? 
And  look ! — they  land,  those  gallant  crews, 
With  their  jackets  light,  and  their  bellying  trews; 

*  *  *  #  # 

Yet  e'en  on  this  triumphant  day 

One  thought  of  grief  will  rise ; 
And  though  I  bid  my  fancy  play, 
And  jest  and  laugh  through  all  the  lay, 
Yet  sadness  still  will  have  her  way, 

And  burst  the  vain  disguise ! 
Yes !  when  the  pageant  shall  have  past, 
I  shall  have  look'd  upon  my  last ; 
I  shall  not  e'er  behold  again 
Our  pullers'  unremitted  strain.; 


258  THE     RACE. 

Nor  listen  to  the  charming  cry 

Of  contest  or  of  victory, 

That  speaks  what  those  young  bosoms  feel, 

As  keel  is  pressing  fast  on  keel ; 

Oh  !  bright  these  glories  still  shall  be. 

But  they  shall  never  dawn  for  me. 


EPITAPH* 

OK    THE    LATE    KINO    OF    THE    SANDWICH    ISLANDS. 


[Translated  from  the  original  of  Crazee  Katefee,  his  Majesty's  Poet 

Laureate.] 


Beneath  the  marble,  mud,  or  moss, 

Whiche'er  his  subjects  shall  determine, 
Entombed  in  eulogies  and  dross. 

The  Island  King  is  food  for  vermin  j 
Prisoned  by  scribblers  and  by  salt, 

From  Lethe  and  sepulchral  vapors. 
His  body  fills  his  father's  vault, 

His  character  the  daily  papers. 

Well  was  he  framed  for  royal  seat ; 

Kind  to  the  meanest  of  his  creatures. 
With  tender  heart  and  tender  feet. 

And  open  purse  and  open  features ; 
The  ladies  say  who  laid  him  out, 

And  earned  thereby  the  usual  pensions, 
They  never  wreathed  a  shroud  about 

A  corpse  of  more  genteel  dimensions. 
*  Written  on  the  death  of  George  IV. 


260 


EPITAPH. 


He  warred  with  half  a  score  of  foes, 

And  shone — by  proxy — in  the  quarrel ; 
Enjoyed  hard  fights  and  soft  repose, 

And  deathless  debt,  and  deathless  laurel : 
His  enemies  were  scalped  and  flayed, 

Whene'er  his  soldiers  were  victorious  ; 
And  widows  wept,  and  paupei-s  paid, 

To  make  their  Sovereign  Ruler  glorious. 

And  days  were  set  apart  for  thanks, 

And  prayers  were  said  by  pious  readers  ; 
And  laurel  lavished  on  the  ranks, 

And  laud  was  lavished  on  their  leaders  ; 
Events  are  writ  by  History's  pen  : 

Though  causes  are  too  much  to  care  for  :- 
Tame  talks  about  the  where  and  when. 

While  Folly  asks  the  why  and  wherefore. 

In  peace  he  was  intensely  gay, 

And  indefatigably  busy  ; 
Preparing  gew-gaws  every  day, 

And  shows  to  make  his  subjects  dizzy  : 
And  hearing  the  report  of  guns, 

And  signing  the  report  of  jailors. 
And  making  up  receipts  for  buns. 

And  patterns  for  the  army  tailors  ; 

And  building  carriages  and  boats, 
And»streets,  and  chapels,  and  pavilions, 

And  regulating  all  the  coats, 

And  all  the  principles  of  millions ; 


EPITAPH. 


261 


And  drinking  homilies  and  gin, 

And  chewing  pork  and  adulation^ 
And  looking  backwards  upon  sin, 

And  looking  forwards  to  salvation. 

The  people,  in  his  happy  reign, 

Were  blest  beyond  all  other  nations  ; 
Unharmed  by  foreign  axe  or  chain, 

Unhealed  by  civil  innovations  ; 
They  served  the  usual  logs  and  stones, 

AVith  all  the  usual  rites  and  terrors  ; 
And  swallowed  all  their  fathers'  bones. 

And  swallowed  all  their  fathers'  errors.* 

When  the  fierce  mob,  with  clubs  and  knives, 

All  vowed  that  nothing  should  content  them. 
But  that  their  representatives 

Should  actually  represent  them  : 
He  interposed  the  proper  checks, 

By  sending  troops  with  drums  and  banners 
To  cut  their  speeches  short,  and  necks, 

And  break  their  heads  to  mend  their  manners. 

And  when  Dissension  flung  her  stain 

Upon  the  light  of  Hymen's  altar, 
And  Destiny  made  Cupid's  chain 

As  galling  as  the  hangman's  halter, 

*  In  the  Sandwich  Islands,  no  greater  mark  of  respect  can  be  paid 
to  the  parent,  by  the  son,  than  the  swallowing  of  part  of  his  nivrtal 
remains.     More  civilized  nations  are  content  with  the  prejudices. 


20-2 


E  P  I  T  A.  P  H  , 


He  passed  a  most  domestic  life, 

By  many  mistresses  befriended, 
And  did  not  put  away  his  wife 

Tor  fear  the  priest  should  be  offended."^ 

And  thus  at  last  he  sunk  to  rest 

Amid  the  blessings  of  his  people  ; 
And  sighs  were  heard  from  every  breast, 

And  bells  were  tolled  from  every  steeple  ; 
And  loud  was  every  public  throng 

His  brilliant  character  adorning, 
And  poets  raised  a  mourning  song. 

And  clothiers  raised  the  price  of  mourning. 

^      His  funeral  was  very  grand, 

Followed  by  many  robes  and  maces. 
And  all  the  great  ones  of  the  land. 

Struggling,  as  heretofore,  for  places  ; 
And  every  loyal  Minister 

Was  there  with  signs  of  purse-felt  sorrow. 
Save  Pozzy,  his  lord  chancellor. 

Who  promised  to  attend  to-morrow. 

Peace  to  his  dust !  his  fostering  care 

By  grateful  hearts  shall  long  be  cherished, 

And  all  his  subjects  shall  declare 

They  lost  a  grinder  when  he  perished.f 

*  When  a  native  of  the  Sandwich  Islands  is  weary  of  his  first  spouse, 
he  may  bring  liome  another,  bat  he  may  not  divorce  his  original 
chosen  consort. 

+  When  the  Sovereign  of  the  Sandwich  Islands  dies,  each  of  hia 


EPITAPH. 


26? 


They  who  shall  look  upon  the  lead, 

In  which  a  people's  love  hath  shrined  hin?. 

Shall  say,  when  all  the  worst  is  said. 
Perhaps  he  leaves  a  worse  behind  him  ! 


subjects  shows  bis  respect  for  the  deceased  Prince,  by  extracting  a- 
valuable  tooth  from  his  head. 


THE  CHANT  OF  THE  BRAZEN  HEAD. 

"  I  THINK,  whatever  mortals  crave, 

With  impotent  endeavor, 
A  wreath — a  rank — a  throne — a  grave — 

The  world  goes  round  for  ever  ; 
I  think  that  life  is  not  too  long. 

And  therefore  I  determine 
That  many  people  read  a  song. 

Who  will  not- read  a  sermon. 

"  I  think  you've  look'd  through  many  hearts, 

And  mused  on  many  actions. 
And  studied  man's  component  parts, 

And  nature's  compound  fractions ; 
I  think  you've  picked  up  truth  by  bits 

From  foreigner  and  neighbor, 
I  think  the  world  has  lost  its  wits, 

And  you  have  lost  your  labor. 

"  I  think  the  studies  of  the  wise, 
The  hero's  noisy  quarrel, 
The  majesty  of  woman's  eyes, 
The  poet's  cherished  laurel  j 


CHANT  Ot     THE  BRAZEN  HEAD.     265 

And  all  that  makes  us  lean  or  fat, 
And  all  that  charms  or  troubles — 

This  bubble  is  more  bright  than  that, 
But  still  they  all  are  bubbles. 

"  I  think  the  thing  you  call  Renown, 

The  unsubstantial  vapor 
For  which  a  soldier  burns  a  town, 

The  sonneteer  a  taper. 
Is  like  the  mist  which,  as  he  flies, 

The  horseman  leaves  behind  him  ; 
He  cannot  mark  its  wreaths  arise. 

Or,  if  he  does,  they  blind  him. 

"  I  think  one  nod  of  Mistress  Chance 

Makes  creditors  of  debtors^ 
And  shifts  the  funeral  for  the  dance, 

The  sceptre  for  the  fetters  ; 
I  think  that  Fortune's  favored  guest, 

May  live  to  gnaw  the  platters  ; 
And  he  that  wears  the  puiple  vest 

May  wear  the  rags  and  tatters. 

"  I  think  the  Tories  love  to  buy 

'  Your  Lordships'  and  '  Your  Graces,' 

By  loathing  common  honesty, 

And  lauding  common  places  ; 

I  think  that  some  are  very  wise, 

And  some  are  very  funny. 

And  some  grow  rich  by  telling  lies, 

And  some  by  telling  money. 
12 


266  CHANT     OF     THE     BRAZEN     HEAD. 

"  I  think  the  Whigs  are  wicked  knaves, 

And  very  like  the  Tories, 
Who  doubt  that  Britain  rules  the  waves, 

And  ask  the  price  of  glories  j 
I  think  that  many  fret  and  fume 

At  what  their  friends  are  planning. 
And  Mr.  Hume  hates  Mr.  Brougham 

As  much  as  Mr.  Canning. 

"  I  think  that  friars  and  their  hoods. 

Their  doctrines  and  their  maggots, 
Have  lighted  up  too  many  feuds. 

And  far  too  many  fagots  ; 
I  think  while  zealots  fast  and  frown, 

And  fight  for  two  or  seven. 
That  there  are  fifty  roads  to  town. 

And  rather  more  to  Heaven. 

*'  I  think  that,  thanks  to  Pagot's  lance, 

And  thanks  to  Chester's  learning. 
The  hearts  that  burned  for  fame  in  France, 

At  home  are  safe  from  burning  ; 
I  think  the  Pope  is  on  his  back. 

And,  though  'tis  fun  to  shake  him, 
I  think  the  Devil  not  so  black. 

As  many  people  make  him. 

"  I  think  that  Love  is  like  a  play 

Where  tears  and  smiles  are  blended, 
Or  like  a  faithless  April  day. 

Whose  shine  with  shower  is  ended  ; 


CHANT     OF     THE     BRAZEN     HEAD.  267 

Like  Colnbrook  pavement,  rather  rough, 

Like  trade,  exposed  to  losses. 
And  like  a  Highland  plaid,  all  stuff', 

And  very  full  of  crosses. 

"  I  think  the  world,  though  dark  it  be, 
Has  aye  one  rapturous  pleasure, 

Conceal'd  in  life's  monotony, 

For  those  who  seek  the  treasure ; 

One  planet  in  a  starless  night — 
One  blossom  on  a  briar — 

One  friend  not  quite  a  hypocrite- 
One  woman  not  a  liar  ! 

"  I  think  poor  beggars  court  St.  Giles, 

Rich  beggars  court  St.  Stephen  ; 
And  Death  looks  down  with  nods  and  smiles, 

And  makes  the  odds  all  even ; 
I  think  some  die  upon  the  field, 

And  some  upon  the  billow. 
And  some  are  laid  beneath  a  shield. 

And  some  beneath  a  willow. 

"  I  think  that  very  few  have  sigh'd. 

When  Fate  at  last  has  found  them, 
Though  bitter  foes  were  by  their  side. 

And  barren  moss  around  them; 
I  think  that  some  have  died  of  drought, 

And  some  have  died  of  drinking  ; — 
I  think  that  naught  is  worth  a  thought. 

And  I'm  a  fool  for  thinking  !" 


CHARADES. 


I. 


There  was  a  time  young  Roland  thought 

His  huntsman's  call  was  worth  a  dozen 
Of  those  sweet  notes  his  ear  had  caught 

In  boyhood,  from  his  blue-eyed  cousin. 
How  is  it  now  that  by  my  first 

Silent  he  sits,  nor  cares  to  follow 
His  deep-mouth'd  stag-hound's  matin  burst, 

His  clear-ton'd  huntsman's  joyous  hollo  ? 

How  is  it  now,  when  Isabel 

Breathes  one  low  note  of  those  sweet  numbers, 
That  every  thought  of  hill  and  dell, 

And  all — save  that  sweet  minstrel — slumbers. 
Why  does  he  feel  that  long,  dull  pain 

Within  my  Second  when  she  leaves  him  % 
When  shall  his  falcon  fly  again? 

When  shall  he  break  the  spell  that  grieves  him  ? 

And  Isabel — ^how  is  it,  too, 

That  sadness  o'er  that  young  brow  closes  1 
How  hath  her  eye  lost  half  its  blue  ? 

How  have  her  cheeks  lost  all  their  roses  1 


CHARADES.  269 

Still  on  her  lute  sweet  numbers  dwell, 

Still  magic  seems  the  breath  that  sways  it ; 

But,  oh  !  how  changed  the  tone  and  spell. 
If  Roland  be  not  there  to  praise  it ! 

One  summer's  eve,  Avhile  Isabel 

Sang  till  the  starlight  came  to  greet  her, 
A  tear  from  Roland's  eyelid  fell. 

And  warp'd  the  string  and  spoil'd  the  metre. 
She  could  not  sing  another  note  ; 

Wherefore,  or  why,  I've  not  a  notion ; 
And  he — the  swelling  in  his  throat 

Seemed  working  from  some  poisonous  potion. 

I  know  not — I — how  sigh  or  tear 

Cause  these  hysterical  effusions  ; 
But  from  that  eve,  one  little  year 

Witnessed,  you'll  say,  such  strange  conclusions. 
Beside  my  All  I  saw  them  sit ; 

And  that  same  lute  of  song  so  tender — 
A  little  child  was  thumping  it 

With  all  his  might — against  the  fender ! 

And  Isabel — she  sang  no  more. 

But  ever  that  small  urchin  followed ; 
Who  with  the  lute  upon  the  floor, 

Like  a  young  dryad,  whooped  and  holloed  ! 
And  Roland's  hound  is  heard  again. 

And  Roland's  hawk  hath  loosened  jesses  ! 
But  Roland's  smile  is  brightest  when 

Beside  my  All  his  boy  he  presses. 


270  CHARADES. 

II. 

Sir  Harry  is  famed  for  his  amiable  way  ' 

Of  tallcing  a  deal  when  he's  nothing  to  say : 
Sir  Harry  will  sit  by  our  Rosalie's  side, 
And  whisper  from  morn  until  eventide  ; 
Yet,  if  you  would  ask  of  that  maiden  fair 
What  Sir  Harry  said  while  he  lingered  there  ; 
Were  the  maiden  as  clever  as  L.  E.  L. 
Not  a  word  that  he  said  could  the  maiden  tell ! 

Sir  Harry  has  ears,  and  Sir  Harry  has  eyes, 

And  Sir  Harry  has  teeth  of  the  usual  size  ; 

His  nose  is  a  nose  of  the  every-day  sort — 

Not  exceedingly  long,  nor  excessively  short ; 

And  his  breath,  tho'  resembling  in  naught  the  "  sweet 

south," 
Is  inhaled  through  his  lips,  and  exhaled  from  his  mouth ; 
And  yet  from  the  hour  that  Sir  Harry  was  nursed, 
People  said  that  his  head  was  no  more  than  my  First ! 

Sir  Harry  has  ringlets  he  curls  every  day, 
And  a  fortune  he  spends  in  pomatums,  they  say  ; 
He  is  just  such  a  youth  as  our  Rosalie  bides  with, 
When  she  has'nt  got  me  to  take  waltzes  or  rides  with ; 
But  not  such  a  one  as,  I  ween,  she  would  choose. 
Were  a  youth  that  /  know  to  be  caught  in  the  noose ; 
Tor  I've  oft  heard  her  say — tho'  so  flighty  she's  reck- 
oned— 
That  she'd  ne'er  take  a  bridegroom  who  hadn't  my  Se- 
cond ! 


CHARADES.  271 

Sir  Harry  sat  out,  the  last  visit  he  paid, 

From  when  breakfast  was  over,  till  dinner  was  laid ! 

He  talked,  in  his  usual  lady-like  way, 

Of  the  ball  and  the  ballet — the  park  and  the  play. 

Little  Rosa,  who  hoped,  ere  the  whole  day  had  passed, 

That  the  youth  would  speak  out,  to  the  purpose,  at  last, 

When  evening  at  length  was  beginning  to  fall, 

Declared  that  Sir  Harry  was  naught  but  my  All! 


III. 

Morning  is  beaming  o'er  brake  and  bower, 
Hark !  to  the  chimes  from  yonder  tower. 
Call  ye  my  First  from  her  chamber  now, 
With  her  snowy  veil  and  her  jeweled  brow. 

Lo  !  where  my  Second,  in  gorgeous  array, 
Leads  from  his  stable  her  beautiful  bay. 
Looking  for  her,  as  he  curvets  by, 
With  an  arching  neck,  and  a  glancing  eye. 

Spread  is  the  banquet,  and  studied  the  song; 

Ranged  in  meet  order  the  menial  throng, 

Jerome  is  ready  with  book  and  stole, 

And  the  maidens  fling  flowers,  but  where  is  my  Whole. 

Look  to  the  hill,  is  he  climbing  its  side  1 
Look  to  the  stream — is  he  crossing  its  tide  1 
Out  on  the  false  one !  he  domes  not  yet — 
Lady,  forget  him,  yea,  scorn  and  forget. 


272  CHARADES. 

IV. 

"  My  first  was  dark  o'er  earth  and  air, 

As  dark  as  she  could  be  ! 
-The  stars  that  gemmed  her  ebon  hair 

Were  only  two  or  three  : 
King  Cole  saw  twice  as  many  there 
As  you  or  I  could  see. 

"  '  Away,  King  Cole,'  mine  hostess  said, 
'  Flagon  and  flask  are  dry  ; 
Your  nag  is  neighing  in  the  shed, 
For  he  knows  a  storm  is  nigh.' 
She  set  my  Second  on  his  head, 
And  she  set  it  all  awry." 


V. 


Come  from  my  First,  ay,  come ! 

The  battle  dawn  is  nigh ; 
And  the  screaming  trump  and  the  thund'ring  drum 

Are  calling  thee  to  die  ! 
Fight  as  thy  father  fought, 

Fall  as  thy  father  fell. 
Thy  task  is  taught,  thy  shroud  is  wrought ; 

So — forward  !  and  farewell ! 

Toll  ye,  my  Second  !  toll ! 

Fling  high  the  flambeau's  light ; 
And  sing  the  hymn  for  a  parted  soul. 

Beneath  the  silent  niijht ! 


CHARADES.  27' 

The  wreath  upon  his  head, 

The  cross  upon  his  breast, 
Let  the  prayer  be  said,  and  the  tear  be  shed : 

So — take  him  to  his  rest ! 

Call  ye  my  Whole,  ay,  call ! 

The  lord  of  lute  and  lay ; 
And  let  him  greet  the  sable  pall 

With  a  noble  song  to-day  ; 
Go,  call  him  by  his  name ; 

No  fitter  hand  may  crave 
To  light  the  0ame  of  a  soldier's  fame 

On  the  turf  of  a  soldier's  grave. 


VI. 

Sir  Hilary  charged  at  Agincourt, — 

Sooth  'twas  an  awful  day  ! 
And  though  in  that  old  age  of  sport 
The  rufflers  of  the  camp  and  court 

Had  little  time  to-pray, 
'Tis  said  Sir  Hilary  muttered  there 
Two  syllables  by  way  of  prayer. 

My  First  to  all  the  brave  and  proud 

Who  see  to-morrow's  sun  ; 
My  Next  with  her  cold  and  quiet  cloud 
To  those  who  find  their  dewy  shroud 

Before  to-day's  be  done  ; 
And  both  together  to  all  blue  eyes 
That  weep  when  a  warrior  nobly  dies. 


274  CHARADES. 

VII. 

He  talked  of  daggers  and  of  darts, 

Of  passions  and  of  pains, 
Of  weeping  eyes  and  wounded  hearts, 

Of  kisses  and  of  chains ; 
He  said,  though  love  was  kin  to  grief, 

He  was  not  born  to  grieve  ; 
He  said,  though  many  rued  belief. 

She  safely  might  believe ; 
But  still  the  lady  shook  her  head, 

And  swore,  by  yea  and  nay, 
My  Whole  was  all  that  he  had  said. 

And  all  that  he  could  say. 

He  said,  my  First — whose  silent  car 

Was  slowly  wandering  by. 
Veiled  in  a  vapor  faint  and  far 

Though  the  unflithomed  sky — 
Was  like  the  smile  whose  rosy  light 

Across  her  young  lips  passed. 
Yet  oh !  it  was  not  half  so  bright, 

It  changed  not  half  so  fast ; 
But  still  the  lady  shook  her  head, 

And  swore,  by  yea  and  nay, 
My  Whole  was  all  that  he  had  said.. 

And  all  that  he  could  say. 

And  then  he  set  a  cypress  wrcath- 

Upon  his  raven  hair. 
And  drew  his  rapier  from  its  sheath, 

Which  made  the  lady  stare ; 


CHARADES.  275 


And  said,  his  life-blood's  purple  flow 

My  second  there  should  dim, 
If  she  he  loved  and  worshipped  so 

Would  only  weep  for  him ; 
But  still  the  lady  shook  her  head. 

And  swore  by  yea  and  nay, 
My  Whole  was  all  that  he  had  said, 

And  all  that  he  could  say. 


VIII. 


My  First  came  forth  in  booted  state, 

For  fair  Valencia  bound  ; 
And  smiled  to  feel  my  Second^s  weight, 

And  hear  its  creaking  sound. 

"  And  here's  a  goaler  sweet,"  quoth  he, 
"  You  cannot  bribe  or  cozen ; 

To  keep  one  ward  in  custody- 
Wise  men  will  forge  a  dozen." 

But  daybreak  saw  a  lady  guide 

My  Whole  across  the  plain, 
With  a  handsome  cavalier  beside, 

To  hold  her  bridle-rein : 

And  "  blessings  on  the  bonds,"  quoth  ho, 
"  Which  wrinkled  age  imposes. 

If  woman  must  a  prisoner  be, 
Her  chain  should  be  of  roses." 


276  CHARADES. 

IX. 

I  graced  Don  Pedro's  revelry, 

All  dressed  in  fire  and  feather, 
When  loveliness  and  chivalry, 

Were  met  to  feast  together. 
He  flung  the  slave  who  moved  the  lid, 

A  purse  of  maravedis  ; 
And  this  that  gallant  Spaniard  did. 

For  me  and  for  the  ladies. 

He  vowed  a  vow,  that  noble  knight, 

Before  he  went  to  table, 
To  make  his  only  sport  the  fight, 

His  only  couch  the  stable, 
Till  he  had  dragged  as  he  was  bid 

Five  score  of  Turks  to  Cadiz  ; — 
And  this  that  gallant  Spaniard  did. 

For  me  and  for  the  ladies. 

To  ride  through  mountains,  where  my  First 

A  banquet  would  be  reckoned ; 
Through  deserts,  where  to  quench  their  thirst 

Men  vainly  turn  my  Second. 
To  leave  the  gates  of  fair  Madrid, 

And  dare  the  gates  of  Hades ; — 
And  this  that  gallant  Spaniard  did, 

For  me  and  for'the  ladies. 


CHARADES. 


X. 


277 


Alas  !  for  that  forgotten  day 

When  Chivalry  was  nourished, 
When  none  but  friars  learned  to  pray 

And  beef  and  beauty  flourished  ! 
And  fraud  in  kings  was  held  accurst, 

And  falsehood  sin  was  reckoned. 
And  mighty  chargers  bore  my  First, 

And  fat  monks  wore  my  Second  ! 

Oh,  then  I  carried  sword  and  shield, 

And  casque  with  flaunting  feather. 
And  earned  my  spurs  on  battle  field, 

In  winter  and  rough  weather ; 
And  polished  many  a  sonnet  up 

To  ladies'  eyes  and  tresses, 
And  learned  to  drain  my  father's  cup, 

And  loose  my  falcon's  jesses  : 

But  dim  is  now  my  grandeur's  gleam ; 

The  mongrel  mob  grows  prouder; 
And  everything  is  done  by  steam, 

And  men  are  killed  by  powder. 
And  now  I  feel  my  swift  decay, 

And  give  unheeded  orders, 
And  rot  in  paltry  state  away, 

With  sheriffs  and  recorders. 


278  CHARADES. 


XI. 


Os  the  casement  frame  the  wind  beat  high, 

Never  a  star  was  in  the  sky ; 

All  Kenneth  Hold  was  wrapt  in  gloom, 

And  Sir  Everard  slept  in  the  Haunted  Room. 

I  sat  and  sang  beside  his  bed ; 
Never  a  single  word  I  said, 

Yet  did  I  scare  his  slumber ; 
And  a  fitful  light  in  his  eye-ball  glisten'd. 
And  his  cheek  grew  pale  as  he  lay  and  listen'd, 
For  he  thought,  or  he  dream'd,  that  fiends  and  fays 
"Were  reckoning  o'er  his  fleeting  days. 

And  telling  out  their  number. 
Was  it  my  Second's  ceaseless  tone  ? 
On  my  Second's  hand  he  laid  his  own : 
The  hand  that  trembled  in  his  grasp, 
Was  crush'd  by  his  convulsive  clasp. 

Sir  Everard  did  not  fear  my  First ; 

He  had  seen  it  in  shapes  that  men  deem  worst 

In  many  a  field  and  flood  ; 
Yet,  in  the  darkness  of  his  dread. 
His  tongue  was  parch'd,  and  his  reason  fled ; 
And  he  watch'd  as  the  lamp  burned  low  and  dim, 
To  see  some  Phantom  gaunt  and  grim 

Come,  dabbled  o'er  with  blood. 


CHARADES. 

Sir  Everard  kneel'd,  and  strove  to  pray, 
He  pray'd  for  light,  and  he  prayed  for  day, 

Till  terror  check'd  his  prayer  ; 
And  ever  I  mutter'd  clear  and  well 
"  Click,  click,"  like  a  tolling  bell, 
Till,  bound  in  Fancy's  magic  spell. 

Sir  Everard  fainted  there. 


279 


XIL 

The  canvas  rattled  on  the  mast. 

As  rose  the  swelling  sail ; 
And  gallantly  the  vessel  passed 

Before  the  cheering  gale  ; 
And  on  my  First  Sir  Florice  stood. 

As  the  far  shore  faded  now. 
And  looked  upon  the  lengthening  flood 

With  a  pale  and  pensive  brow  : 
"  When  I  shall  bear  thy  silken  glove 

Where  the  proudest  Moslem  flee, 
My  lady  love,  my  lady  love, 

Oh,  waste  one  thought  on  me  !" 

Sir  Florice  lay  in  a  dungeon  cell, 

AVith  none  to  soothe  or  save  ; 
And  high  above  his  chamber  fell 

The  echo  of  the  wave  ; 
But  still  he  struck  my  Second  there, 

And  bade  its  tones  renew 
Those  hours  when  every  hue  was  fair, 

And  every  hope  was  true  : — 


280  CHARADES. 

"  If  still  your  angel  footsteps  move, 
Where  mine  may  never  be, 
My  lady  love,  my  lady  love, 
Oh,  dream  one  dream  of  me !" 

Not  long  the  Christian  captive  pined  ! — ■ 

My  Whole  was  round  his  neck  ; 
A  sadder  necklace  ne'er  veas  twined, 

So  white  a  skin  to  deck  ; 
Queen  Folly  ne'er  was  yet  content 

With  gems  or  golden  store, 
But  he  who  wears  this  ornament, 

Will  I'arely  sigh  for  more  ; — 
"  My  spirit  to  the  Heaven  above, 

My  body  to  the  sea, 
My  heart  to  thee,  my  lady  love. 

Oh,  weep  one  tear  for  me  !" 


XIII. 


Uncouth  was  I  of  face  and  form, 

But  strong  to  blast  and  blight, 
By  pestilence  or  thunderstorm, 

By  famine  or  by  fight ; 
Not  a  warrior  went  to  the  battle  plain 

Not  a  pilot  steered  the  ship. 
That  did  not  look  in  doubt  and  pain, 
For  an  omen  of  havoc  or  hurricane, 

To  my  dripping  brow  and  lip. 


CHARADES.  281 

Within  my  Second's  dark  recess 

In  silent  pomp  I  dwelt ; 
Before  the  mouth  in  lowliness 

My  rude  adorers  knelt ; 
And  ever  the  shriek  rang  loud  within, 

And  ever  the  red  blood  ran ; 
And  amid  the  sin  and  smoke  and  din, 
I  sat  with  a  changeless  endless  grin, 

Forging  my  First  for  man. 

My  priests  are  rotting  in  their  grave, 

My  shrine  is  silent  now, 
There  is  no  victim  in  my  cave, 

No  crown  upon  my  brow  ; 
Nothing  is  left  but  dust  and  clay 

Of  all  that  was  divine  ; 
My  name  and  my  memory  pass  away  : — 
And  yet  this  bright  and  glorious  day 

Is  called  by  mortals  mine  ! 


XIV. 


Lord  Ronald  by  the  rich  torchlight 

Feasted  his  vassals  tall ; 
And  he  broached  my  First,  that  jovial  knight, 

Within  his  bannered  hall : 
The  red  stream  went  from  wood  to  can. 

And  then  from  can  to  mouth. 
And  the  deuce  a  man  knew  how  it  ran, 

Nor  heeded,  north  or  south  : 


282  CHARADES. 

"  Let  the  health  go  wide,"  Lord  Eonald  cried, 

As  he  saw  the  river  flow — 
"  One  health  to-night  to  the  noblest  Bride, 

And  one  to  the  stoutest  Foe !" 

Lord  Ronald  kneeled,  when  the  morning  came, 

Low  in  his  mistress'  bower ; 
And  she  gave  him  my  Second,  that  beauteous  dame, 

For  a  spell  in  danger's  hour  : 
Her  silver  shears  were  not  at  hand  ; 

And  she  smiled  a  playful  smile, 
As  she  cleft  it  with  her  lover's  brand. 

And  grew  not  pale  the  while : 
"  And  ride,  and  ride,"  Lord  Ronald  cried. 

As  he  kissed  its  silken  glow  ; — 
"  For  he  that  woos  the  noblest  Bride 

Must  beard  the  stoutest  Foe  !" 

Lord  Ronald  stood,  when  the  day  shone  fair. 

In  his  garb  of  glittering  mail ; 
And  marked  how  my  Whole  was  crumbling  there 

AVith  the  battle's  iron  hail : 
The  bastion  and  the  battlement 

On  many  a  craven  crown. 
Like  rocks  from  some  huge  mountain  rent, 

Were  tumbling  darkly  down  : 
"  Whate'er  betide,"  Lord  Ronald  cried, 

As  he  bade  his  trumpets  blow — 
''I  shall  win  to-night  the  noblest  Bride, 

Or  fall  bv  the  stoutest  Foe  !" 


CHARADES.  283 

XV. 

One  day  my  First  young  Cupid  made 

In  Vulcan's  Lemnian  cell, 
For  alas  !  he  has  learn'd  his  flither's  trade, 

As  many  have  found  too  well ;  • 
He  work'd  not  the  work  with  golden  twme, 

He  wreathed  it  not  with  flowers. 
He  left  the  metal  to  rust  in  the  mine, 

The  roses  to  fade  in  the  bowers  : 
He  forged  my  First  of  looks  and  sighs, 

Of  painful  doubts  and  fears, 
Of  passionate  hopes  and  memories. 

Of  eloquent  smiles  and  tears. 

My  Second  was  a  wayward  thing, 

Like  others  of  his  name, 
With  a  fancy  as  light  as  the  gossamer's  wing, 

And  a  spirit  as  hot  as  flame, 
And  apt  to  trifle  time  away. 

And  rather  fool  than  knave. 
And  either  very  gravely  gay, 

Or  very  gaily  grave  ; 
And  far  too  weak,  and  fir  too  wild, 

And  far  too  free  of  thought, 
To  rend  what  Venus'  laughing  child 

On  Vulcan's  anvil  wrought. 

And  alas  !  as  he  led,  that  festal  night, 

His  mistress  down  the  stair, 
And  felt,  by  the  flambeau's  flickering  light, 

That  she  was  very  fair, 


284  CHARADES. 

He  did  not  guess — as  they  paused  to  hear, 

How  music's  dying  tone 
Came  mournfully  to  the  distant  ear, 

With  a  magic  all  its  own — 
That  the  archer  god,  to  thrall  his  soul. 

Was  lingering  in  the  porch. 
Disguised  that  evening,  like  my  Whole, 

With  a  sooty  face  and  torch. 


XVI. 


The  Indian  lover  burst 

From  his  lone  cot  by  night ; — 
When  Love  hath  lit  my  First, 
In  hearts  by  Passion  nurst. 

Oh  !  who  shall  quench  the  light  1 

The  Indian  left  the  shore  ; 

He  heard  the  night  wind  sing, 
And  curs'd  the  tardy  oar, 
And  wish'd  that  he  could  soar, 

Upon  my  Second's  wing. 

The  blast  came  cold  and  damp, 
But,  all  the  voyage  through, 
I  lent  my  lingering  lamp 
As  o'er  the  marshy  swamp 
He  Daddled  his  canoe. 


CHARADES, 


XVII. 


285 


When  Ralph  by  holy  hands  was  tied 

For  life  to  blooming  Cis, 
Sir  Thrifty  too  drove  home  his  bride, 

A  fashionable  Miss, 
That  day,  my  First,  with  jovial  sound 

Proclaim'd  the  happy  tale. 
And  drunk  was  all  the  country  round 

With  pleasure — or  with  ale. 

Oh,  why  should  Hymen  ever  blight 

The  roses  Cupid  wore  ? — 
Or  why  should  it  be  ever  night 

Where  it  was  day  before  1 — 
Or  why  should  women  have  a  tongue, 

Or  why  should  it  be  curs'd, 
In  being,  like  my  Second,  long. 

And  louder  than  my  First  1 

"  You  blackguard  !"  cries  the  rural  wench, 

My  lady  screams,  "  Ah,  bete  I" 
And  Lady  Thrifty  scolds  in  French, 

And  Cis  in  Billingsgate  ; 
'Til  both  their  Lords  my  Second  try, 

To  end  connubial  strife — 
Sir  Thrifty  hath  the  means  to  die, 

And  Ralph— to  beat  his  wife  ! 


286  CHARADES. 

XYIII. 

A  Templar  kneel'd  at  a  friar's  knee  ; 
He  was  a  comely  youth  to  see, 
With  curling  locks  and  forehead  high. 
And  flushing  cheek,  and  flashing  eye  ; 
And  the  monk  was  as  jolly  and  large  a  man 
As  ever  laid  lip  to  a  convent  can. 

Or  called  for  a  contribution  ; 
As  ever  read,  at  midnight  hour, 
Confessional  in  lady's  bower, 
Ordain'd  for  a  peasant  the  penance  whip, 
Or  spoke  for  a  noble's  venial  slip 

A  venal  absolution. 

"  Oh,  Father  !  in  the  dim  twilight 
I  have  sinned  a  grievous  sin  to-night ; 
And  I  feel  hot  pain  e'en  now  begun 
Tor  the  fearful  murder  I  have  done. 

"  I  rent  my  victim's  coat  of  green  ; 
I  pierced  his  neck  with  my  dagger  keen  ; 
The  red  stream  mantled  high; 
I  grasp'd  him,  Father,  all  the  while 
With  shaking  hand,  and  feverish  smile. 
And  said  my  jest,  and  sang  my  song. 
And  laugh'd  my  laughter,  loud  and  long, 
Until  his  glass  was  dry  ! 


CHARADES.  287 

"  Though  he  was  rich,  and  very  old, 
I  did  not  touch  a  grain  of  gold, 
But  the  blood  I  drank  from  the  bubbling  vein 
Hath  left  on  my  lip  a  purple  stain." 

"  My  son  !  my  son  !  for  this  thou  hast  done 
Though  the  sands  of  thy  life  for  aye  should  run," 
The  merry  monk  did  say  ; 
"  Though  thine  eye  be  bright,  and  thine  heart  be  light, 
Hot  spirits  shall  haunt  thee  all  the  night. 
Blue  devils  all  the  day." 

The  thunders  of  the  Church  were  ended. 
Back  on  his  way  the  Templar  wended  ; 
But  the  name  of  him  the  Templar  slew- 
Was  more  than  the  Inquisition  knew. 


XIX. 

Eow  on,  row  on  ! — The  First  may  light 
My  shallop  o'er  the  wave  to-night ; 
But  she  will  hide  in  a  little  while, 
The  lustre  of  her  silent  smile  ; 
For  fickle  she  is,  and  changeful  still. 
As  a  madman's  wish,  or  a  woman's  will. 

Row  on,  row  on  ! — The  Second  is  high 
In  my  own  bright  lady's  balcony  ; 
And  she  beside  it,  pale  and  mute, 
Untold  her  beads,  untouched  her  lute. 
Is  wondering  why  her  lover's  skiff 
So  slowly  glides  to  the  lonely  cliff. 


288  CHARADES. 

Row  on,  row  on  ! — When  the  Whole  is  fled, 
The  song  will  be  hushed,  and  the  rapture  dead  ; 
And  I  must  go  in  my  grief  again 
To  the  toils  of  day,  and  the  haunts  of  men 
To  a  future  of  fear,  and  a  present  of  care, 
And  raemorv's  dream  of  the  things  that  were. 


AUSTRALASIA. 

PRIZE  POEM  AT  TRINITY  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE,  1823. 

The  sun  is  Jiigh  in  heaven ;  a  fovoring  breeze 
Fills  the  white  sail,  and  sweeps  the  rippling  seas, 
And  the  tall  vessel  walks  her  destined  way, 
And  rocks  and  glitters  in  the  curling  spray. 
Among  the  shrouds,  all  happiness  and  hope, 
The  busy  seaman  colls  the  rattling  rope, 
And  tells  his  jest,  and  carols  out  his  song. 
And  laughs  his  laughter,  vehement  and  long ; 
Or  pauses  on  the  deck,  to  dream  awhile 
Of  his  babe's  prattle,  and  their  mother's  smile. 
And  nods  the  head,  and  waves  the  welcome  hand, 
To  those  who  weep  upon  the  lessening  strand. 

His  is  the  roving  step  and  humor  dry, 

His  the  light  laugh,  and  his  the  jocund  eye ; 

And  his  the  feeling,  which,  in  guilt  or  grief, 

Makes  the  sin  venial,  and  the  sorrow  briefl 

But  there  are  hearts,  that  merry  deck  below, 

Of  darker  error,  and  of  deeper  wo, 

Children  of  wrath  and  wretchedness,  who  grieve 

Not  for  the  country,  but  the  crimes  they  leave. 


290  AUSTRALASIA. 

Who,  while  for  them  on  many  a  sleepless  bed, 
The  prayer  is  murmur'd,  and  the  tear  is  shed, 
In  exile  and  in  misery,  lock  within 
Their  dread  despair,  their  unrepented  sin, — 
And  in  their  madness  dare  to  gaze  on  heaven, 
Sullen  ^nd  cold,  unawed  and  unforgiven ! 

There  the  gaunt  robber,  stern  in  sin  and  shame, 
Shows  his  dull  features  and  his  iron  frame ; 
And  tenderer  pilferers  creep  in  silence  by, 
With  quiv'ring  lip,  flush'd  brow  and  vacant  eye. 
And  some  there  are  who,  in  their  close  of  day, 
With  dropping  jaw,  weak  step,  and  temples  gray, 
Go  tott'ring  forth  to  find,  across  the  wave, 
A  short  sad  sojourn,  and  a  foreign  grave ; 
And  some,  who  look  their  long  and  last  adieu" 
To  the  white  cliffs  that  vanish  from  the  view, 
While  youth  still  blooms,  and  vigor  nerves  the  arm, 
The  blood  flows  freely,  and  the  pulse  beats  warm. 
The  hapless  female  stands  in  silence  there, 
So  weak,  so  wan,  and  yet  so  sadly  fair. 
That  those  who  gaze,  a  rude  untutor'd  tribe. 
Check  the  coarse  question,  and  the  wounding  gibe, 
And  look,  and  long  to  strike  the  fetter  off, 
And  stay  to  pity,  though  they  came  to  scoff 
Then  o'er  the  cheek  there  runs  a  burning  blush. 
And  the  hot  tears  of  shame  begin  to  rush 
Forth  from  their  swelling  orbs ; — she  turns  away. 
And  her  white  fingers  o'er  her  eye-lids  stray. 
And  still  the  tears  through  those  white  fingers  glide, 
Which  strive  to  check  them,  or  at  least  to  hide ! 


AUSTRALASIA.  291 

And  there  the  stripling,  Jed  to  plunder's  school, 

Ere  passion  slept,  or  reason  learn'd  to  rule, 

Clasps  his  young  hands,  and  beats  his  throbbing  brain, 

And  looks  with  marvel  on  his  galling  chain. 

Oh  !  you  may^uess  from  that  unconscious  gaze 

His  soul  hath  dream'd  of  those  far  fading  days. 

When,  rudely  nurtured  on  the  mountain's  brow, 

He  tended  day  by  day  his  father's  plough  ; 

Blest  in  his  day  of  toil,  his  night  of  ease. 

His  life  of  purity,  his  soul  of  peace. 

Oh,  yes !  to-day  his  soul  hath  backward  been 

To  many  a  tender  face,  and  beauteous  scene ; 

The  verdant  valley  and  the  dark  brown  hill, 

The  small  fair  garden,  and  its  tinkling  rill, 

His  grandame's  tale,  believed  at  twilight  hour, 

His  sister  singing  in  her  myrtle  bower. 

And  she,  the  maid,  of  every  hope  bereft. 

So  fondly  loved,  alas  !   so  falsely  left ; 

The  winding  path,  the  dwelling  in  the  grove. 

The  look  of  welcome,  and  the  kiss  of  love — 

These  are  his  dreams; — but  these  are  dreams  of  bliss! 

Why  do  they  blend  with  such  a  lot  as  his  ? 

And  is  there  naught  for  him  but  grief  and  gloom, 
A  lone  existence,  and  an  early  tomb  1 
Is  there  no  hope  of  comfort  and  of  rest 
To  the  sear'd  conscience,  and  the  troubled  breast  ? 
Oh,  say  not  so !     In  some  far  distant  clime. 
Where  lives  no  witness  of  his  earlv  crime. 
Benignant  Penitence  may  haply  muse 
On  purer  pleasures,  and  on  brighter  views. 


292  AUSTRALASIA. 

And  slum'bring  Virtue  wake  at  last  to  claim 
Another  being,  and  a  fairer  fame. 

Beautiful  land  !  within  whose  quiet  shore 
Lost  spirits  may  forget  the  stain  they  bore : 
Beautiful  land  !  with  all  thy  blended  shades 
Of  waste  and  wood,  rude  rocks,  and  level  glades, 
On  thee,  on  thee  I  gaze,  as  moslems  look 
To  the  blest  islands  of  their  prophet's  book ; 
And  oft  I  deem  that,  link'd  by  magic  spell. 
Pardon  and  peace  upon  thy  valleys  dwell. 
Like  to  sweet  houris  beck'ning  o'er  the  deep. 
The  souls  that  tremble,  and  the  eyes  that  weep. 
Therefore  on  thee  undying  sunbeams  throw 
Their  clearest  radiance,  and  their  Warmest  glow; 
And  tranquil  nights,  cool  gales,  and  gentle  showers 
Make  bloom  eternal  in  thy  sinless  bowers. 
Green  is  thy  turf;  stern  winter  doth  not  dare 
To  breathe  his  blast,  and  leave  a  ruin  there, 
And  the  charm'd  ocean  roams  thy  rocks  around. 
With  softer  motion,  and  with  sweeter  sound  : 
Among  thy  blooming  flowers  and  blushing  fruit 
The  whisp'ring  of  young  birds  is  never  mute, 
And  never  doth  the  streamlet  cease  to  well 
Through  its  old  channel  in  the  hidden  dell. 
Oh  !  if  the  Muse  of  Greece  had  ever  stray'd,  , 
In  solemn  twilight,  through  thy  forest  shade. 
And  swept  her  lyre,  and  waked  thy  meads  along 
The  liquid  echo  of  her  ancient  song. 
Her  fabling  Fancy  in  that  hour  had  found 
Voices  of  music,  shapes  of  grace,  around  ; 


AUSTRALASIA.  293 

Among  thy  trees,  with  merry  step  and  glance, 

The  Dryad  then  had  wound  her  wayward  dance, 

And  the  cold  Naiad  in  thy  waters  fair 

Bathed  her  white  breast,  and  wrung  her  dripping  hair. 

Beautiful  Land  !  upon  so  pure  a  plain 
Shall  Superstition  hold  her  hated  reign  ? 
Must  Bigotry  build  up  her  cheerless  shrine 
In  such  an  air,  on  such  an  earth  as  thine  ! 
Alas !  Religion  from  thy  placid  isles 
Veils  the  warm  splendor  of  her  heavenly  smiles, 
And  the  wrapt  gazer  in  the  beauteous  plan 
See  nothing  dark  except  the  soul  of  Man. 

Sweet  are  the  links  that  bind  us  to  our  kind. 
Meek,  but  unyielding, — felt,  but  undefined  ; 
Sweet  is  the  love  of  brethren,  sweet  the  joy 
Of  a  young  mother  in  her  cradled  toy. 
And  sweet  is  childhood's  deep  and  earnest  glow 
Of  reverence  for  a  father's  head  of  snow  ! 
Sweeter  than  all,  ere  our  young  hopes  depart. 
The  quick'ning  throb  of  an  impassioned  heart. 
Beating  in  silence,  eloquently  still. 
For  one  loved  soul  that  answers  to  its  thrill. 
But  where  thy  smile.  Religion,  hath  not  shone, 
The  chain  is  riven,  and  the  charm  is  gone. 
And,  unawaken'd  by  thy  wondrous  spell, 
The  feelings  slumber  in  their  silent  cell. 

Hush'd  is  the  voice  of  labor  and  of  mirth, 
The  light  of  day  is  sinking  from  the  earth 


294  AUSTRALASIA. 

And  Evening  mantles  in  her  dewy  calm 

The  couch  of  one  who  cannot  heed  its  balm.* 

Lo !  where  the  chieftain  on  his  matted  bed 

Leans  the  faint  form,  and  hangs  the  feverish  head ; 

There  is  no  lustre  in  his  wandering  eye, 

His  forehead  hath  no  show  of  majesty. 

His  gasping  lip,  to  weak  for  wail  or  prayer, 

Scarce  stirs  the  breeze,  and  leaves  no  echo  there. 

And  his  strong  arm,  so  nobly  wont  to  rear 

The  feather'd  target,  or  the  ashen  spear. 

Drops  powerless  and  cold  !  the  pang  of  death 

Locks  the  set  teeth,  and  chokes  the  struggling  breath ; 

And  the  last  glimmering  of  departing  day 

Lingers  around  to  herald  life  away. 

Is  there  no  duteous  youth  to  sprinkle  now 
One  drop  of  water  on  his  lip  and  brow  ? 
No  dark-eyed  maid  to  bring  with  soundless  foot 
The  lulling  potion,  or  the  healing  roof? 
No  tender  look  to  meet  his  wandering  gaze  1 
No  tone  of  fondness,  heard  in  happier  days, 
To  sooth  the  terrors  of  the  spirit's  flight. 
And  speak  of  mercy  and  of  hope  to-night? 
All  love,  all  leave  him  ! — terrible  and  slow 
Along  the  crowd  the  whisper'd  murmurs  grow. 
"  The  hand  of  heaven  is  on  him  !  is  it  our's 
"To  check  the  fleeting  of  his  numbered  hours? 

*  This  sketch  of  the  death  of  a  New  Zealander,  and  of  the  super- 
Btition  which  prevents  the  oflering  of  any  consolation  or  assistance, 
under  the  idea  tliat  a  sick  man  is  under  the  imniediate  influence  of 
the  Deity,  is  taken  from  tlie  narrative  of  the  death  of  Duaterra,  a 
friendly  chieftain,  recorded  by  Mr.  Nicholas,  vol.  ii.  p.  181. 


•  AUSTRALASIA,  205 

"  Oh,  not  to  us, — oh,  not  to  us  is  given 

"  To  X'ead  the  boolc,  or  thwart  the  will,  of  Heaven  ! 

"  Away,  away  !"  and  each  familiar  flice 

Recoils  in  horror  from  his  sad  embrace ; 

The  turf  on  which  he  lies  is  hallow'd  ground, 

The  sullen  priest  stalks  gloomily  around, 

And  shuddering  friends,  that  dare  not  soothe  or  save, 

Hear  the  last  groan,  and  dig  the  destined  grave. 

The  frantic  Widow  folds  upon  her  breast 

Her  glittering  trinkets  and  her  gorgeous  vest, 

Cirgles  her  neck  with  many  a  mystic  charm. 

Clasps  the  rich  bracelet  on  her  desperate  arm. 

Binds  her  black  hair,  and  stains  her  eye-lid's  fringe 

With  the  jet  lustre  of  the  Henow's  tinge; 

Then  on  the  spot  where  those  dear  ashes  lie, 

In  bigot  transport  sits  her  down  to  die. 

Her  swarthy  brothers  mark'd  the  wasted  cheek. 

The  straining  eye-ball,  and  the  stifled  shriek. 

And  sing  the  praises  of  her  deathless  name, 

As  the  last  flutter  racks  her  tortured  frame. 

They  sleep  together :  o'er  the  natural  tomb 

The  lichen'd  pine  rears  up  its  form  of  gloom, 

And  lorn  accacias  shed  their  shadow  gray, 

Bloomless  and  leafless,  o'er  the  buried  clay. 

And  often  there,  when,  calmly,  coldly  bright. 

The  midnight  moon  flings  down  her  ghastly  light. 

With  solemn  murmur,  and  with  silent  tread. 

The  dance  is  order'd,  and  the  verse  is  said. 

And  sights  of  wonder,  sounds  of  spectral  fear 

Scare  the  quick  glance,  and  chill  the  startled  ear. 


296  AUSTRALASIA. 

Yet  direr  visions  e'en  than  these  remain ; 

A  fiercer  guiltiness,  a  fouler  stain  ! 

Oh  !  who  shall  sing  the  scene  of  savage  strife, 

Where  Platred  glories  in  the  waste  of  life? 

The  hurried  march,  the  looks  of  grim  delight, 

The  yell,  the  rush,  the  slaughter,  and  the  flight, 

The  arms  unwearied  in  the  cruel  toil. 

The  hoarded  vengeance  and  the  rifled  spoil ; 

And,  last  of  all,  the  revel  in  the  wood, 

The  feast  of  death,  the  banqueting  of  blood, 

When  the  wild  .warrior  gazes  on  his  foe 

Convulsed  beneath  him  in  his  painful  throe, 

And  lifts  the  knife,  and  kneels  him  down  to  drain 

The  purple  current  from  the  quiv'ring  vein? — 

Cease,  cease  the  tale ;  and  let  the  ocean's  roll 

Shut  the  dark  horror  from  my  wilder'd  soul ! 

And  are  there  none  to  succor  ?  none  to  speed 
A  fairer  feeling  and  a  holier  creed  ? 
Alas !  for  this,  upon  the  ocean  blue. 
Lamented  Cook,  thy  pennon  hither  flew; 
For*  this,  undaunted  o'er  the  raging  brine. 
The  venturous  Frank  upheld  his  Saviour's  sign. 
Unhappy  chief!  while  Fancy  thus  surveys 
The  scatter'd  islets,  and  the  sparkling  bays, 
Beneath  whose  cloudless  sky  and  gorgeous  sun 
Thy  life  was  ended,  and  thy  voyage  done. 
In  shadowy  mist  thy  form  appears  to  glide, 
Haunting  the  grove,  or-floating  on  the  tide; 

*  From  the  coast  of  Australasia  the  last  despatches  of  La  Peyronso 
were  dated.    Vid.  Quarterly  Jievlew,  for  Feb.  1810. 


AUSTRALASIA.  297 

Oh !  there  was  grief  for  thee,  and  bitter  tears, 
And  racking  doubts  through  long  and  joyless  years ; 
And  tender  tongues  that  babbled  of  the  theme. 
And  lonely  hearts  that  doated  on  the  dream. 
Pale  Memory  deem'd  she  saw  thy  cherish'd  form 
Snatch'd  from  the  foe,  or  rescued  from  the  storm ; 
And  faithful  Love,  unfailing  and  untired, 
Clung  to  each  hope,  and  sigh'd  as  each  expired. 
On  the  black  desert,  or  the  tombless  sea, 
No  prayer  was  said,  no  requiem  sung  for  thee ; 
Aifection  knows  not,  whether  o'er  thy  grave, 
The  ocean  murmur,  or  the  willow  wave ; 
But  still  the  beacon  of  thy  sacred  name 
Litrhts  ardent  souls  to  Virtue  and  to  Fame ; 
Still  Science  mourns  thee,  and  the  grateful  Muse 
Wreathes  the  green  cypress  for  her  own  Peyrouse. 

But  not  thy  death  shall  mar  the  gracious  plan, 
Nor  check  the  task  thy  pious  toil  began ; 
O'er  the  wide  waters  of  the  bounding  main 
The  Book  of  Life  must  win  its  way  again, 
And'in  the  regions  by  thy  fate  endear'd, 
The  Cross  be  lifted,  and  the  Altar  rear'd. 

With  furrow'd  brow  and  cheek  serenely  fair. 

The  calm  wind  wand'ring  o'er  his  silver  hair. 

His  arm  uplifted,  and  his  moisten'd  eye 

rix'd  in  deep  rapture  on  the  golden  sky, — 

Upon  the  shore,  through  many  a  billow  driven, 

He  kneels  at  last,  the  Messenger  of  Heaven ! 

Long  years,  that  rank  the  mighty  with  the  weak. 

Have  dimm'd  the  flush  upon  his  faded  cheek, 

13* 


298  AUSTRALASIA. 

And  many  a  dew,  and  many  a  noxious  damp, 

The  daily  labor,  and  the  nightly  lamp, 

Have  reft  away,  for  ever,  reft  from  him. 

The  liquid  accent,  and  the  buoyant  limb. 

Yet  still  within'  him  aspirations  swell 

Which  time  corrupts  not,  sorrow  cannot  quell: 

The  changeless  Zeal,  which  on,  from  land  to  land. 

Speeds  the  faint  foot,  and  nerves  the  wither'd  hand, 

And  the  mild  Charity,  which  day  by  day, 

Weeps  every  wound  and  every  stain  away, 

Rears  the  young  bud  on  every  blighted  stem. 

And  longs  to  comfort,  where  she  must  condemn. 

With  these,  through  storms,  and  bitterness  and  wrath, 

In  peace  and  power  he  holds  his  onward  path. 

Curbs  the  fierce  soul,  and  sheathes  the  murd'rous  steel, 

And  calms  the  passion  he  hath  ceased  to  feel. 

Yes !  he  hath  triumph'd  ! — while  his  lips  relate 

The  sacred  story  of  his  Saviour's  fate. 

While  to  the  search  of  that  tumultuous  horde 

He  opens  wide  the  Everlasting  Word, 

And  bids  the  soul  drink  deep  of  wisdom  there, 

In  fond  devotion,  and  in  fervent  prayer, 

In  speechless  awe  the  wonder-stricken  throng 

Check  their  rude  feasting  and  their  barbarous  song : 

Around  his  steps  the  gathering  myriads  crowd. 

The  chief,  the  slave,  the  timid,  and  the  proud  ;" 

Of  various  features,  and  of  various  dress. 

Like  their  own  forest-leaves,  confused  and  numberless. 

Where  shall  your  temples,  where  your  worship  be, 

Gods  of  the  air,  and  Rulers  of  the  sea ! 


AUSTRi^LASIA.  299 

In  the  glad  dawning  of  a  kinder  light, 
Your  blind  adorer  quits  your  gloomy  rite, 
And  kneels  in  gladness  on  his  native  plain, 
A  happier  votary  at  a  holier  fane. 

Beautiful  Land,  farewell ! — when  toil  and  strife, 
And  all  the  sighs,  and  all  the  sins  of  life 
Shall  come  about  me,  when  the  light  of  Truth 
Shall  scatter  the  bright  mists  that  dazzled  youth, 
And  Memory  muse  in  sadness  on  the  past. 
And  mourn  for  pleasure  far  too  sweet  to  last ; 
How  often  shall  I  long  for  some  green  spot. 
Where,  not  remembering,  and  remembered  not 
With  no  false  verse  to  deck  my  lying  bust. 
With  no  fond  tear  to  vex  mymould'ring  dust, 
This  busy  brain  may  find  its  grassy  shrine, 
And  sleep,  untroubled,  in  a  shade  like  thine ! 


ATHENS. 

PRIZE  POEM,  AT  TRDfTTY  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE,  1S94. 

"  High  towers,  fair  temples,  goodly  theatres, 
Strong  walls,  rich  porches,  princely  palaces. 
Large  streets,  brave  houses,  sacred  sepulchres. 
Sure  gates,  sweet  gardens,  stately  galleries, 
"Wrought  with  fair  pillars  and  fine  imageries, 
All  these  (()  pity !)  now  are  turned  to  dust, 
And  overgrown  with  black  oblivion's  rust." 

Spenser. 

Muse  of  old  Athens  !  strike  thine  ancient  lute ! 
Are  the  strings  broken  ?  is  the  music  mute  1 
Hast  thou  no  tears  to  gush,  no  prayers  to  flow, 
Wails  for  her  fate,  or  curses  for  her  foe  ? 
If  still,  within  some  dark  and  drear  recess, 
Clothed  with  sad  pomp  and  spectral  loveliness, 
Though  pale  thy  cheek,  and  torn  thy  flowing  hair, 
And  reft  the  roses  passion  worshipp'd  there, 
Thou  lingerest,  lone,  beneath  thy  laurel  bough. 
Glad  in  the  incense  of  a  poet's  vow, 
Bear  me,  oh,  bear  me,  to  the  vine-clad  hill. 
Where  nature  smiles,  and  Beauty  blushes  still, 
And  Memory  blends  her  tale  of  other  years 
With  earnest  hopes,  deep  sighs,  and  bitter  tears ! 


ATHENS.  301 

Desolate  Athens !  though  thy  gods  are  fled, 

Thy  temples  silent,  and  thy  glory  dead, 

Though  all  thou  hadst  of  beautiful  and  brave 

Sleep  in  the  tomb,  or  moulder  in  the  wave, 

Though  power  and  praise  forsake  thee  and  forget, 

Desolate  Athens,  thou  art  lovely  yet ! 

Around  thy  walls,  in  ev^ry  wood  and  vale, 

Thine  own  sweet  bird,  the  lonely  nightingale, 

Still  makes  her  home :  and  when  the  moonlight  hour 

Flings  its  soft  magic  over  brake  and  bower, 

Murmurs  her  sorrows  from  her  ivy  shrine. 

Or  the  thick  foliage  of  the  deathless  vine. 

Where  erst  Megsera  chose  her  fearful  crown, 

The  bright  narcissus  hangs  his  clusters  down ; 

And  the  gay  crocus  decks  with  glittering  dew 

The  yellow  radiance  of  his  golden  hue. 

Still  thine  own  olive  haunts  its  native  earth, 

Green  as  when  Pallas  smiled  upon  its  birth; 

And  still  Cephisus  pours  his  sleepless  tide, 

So  clear  and  calm,  along  the  meadow  side, 

That  you  may  gaze  long  hours  upon  the  stream. 

And  dream  at  last  the  poet's  witching  dream, 

That  the  sweet  Muses,  in  the  neighboring  bowers, 

Sweep  their  wild  harps,  and  wreath  their  odorous  flowers. 

And  laughing  Venus  o'er  the  level  plains 

Waves  her  light  lash,  and  shakes  her  guilded  reins. 

How  terrible  is  Time !  his  solemn  years, 
The  tombs  of  all  our  hopes  and  all  our  fears. 
In  silent  horror  roll ! — the  gorgeous  throne. 
The  pillar'd  arch,  the  monumental  stone, 


302  ATHENS. 

Melt  in  swift  ruin  ;  and  of  mighty  climes, 
Where  Fame  told  tales  of  virtues  and  of  crimes, 
Where  Wisdom  taught,  and  Valor  woke  to  strife, 
And  Art's  creations  breathed  their  mimic  life. 
And  the  young  Poet,  when  the  stars  shone  high, 
Drank  the  deep  rapture  of  the  quiet  sky, 
Naught  now  remains,  but  Nature's  placid  scene, 
Heaven's  deathless  blue,  and  Earth's  eternal  green, 
The  showers  that  fall  on  palaces  and  graves, 
The  suns  that  shine  for  freemen  and  for  slaves : 
Science  may  sleep  in  ruin,  man  in  shame, 
But  Nature  lives,  still  lovely,  still  the  same ! 
The  rock,  the  river, — these  have  no  decay ! 
The  city  and  its  masters, — where  are  they  1 
Go  forth,  and  wander  through  the  cold  remains 
Of  fallen  statues,  and  of  tottering  fanes. 
Seek  the  loved  haunts  of  poet  and  of  sage 
The  gay  palsestra,  and  the  gaudy  stage ! 
What  signs  are  there?  a  solitary  stone. 
And  shatter'd  capital  with  grass  o'ergrown, 
A  mouldering  frieze,  half-hid  in  ancient  dust, 
A  thistle  springing  o'er  a  nameless  bust; — 
Yet  this  was  Athens !  still  a  holy  spell 
Breathes  in  the  dome,  and  wanders  in  the  dell. 
And  vanish'd  times  and  wondrous  forms  appear, 
And  sudden  echoes  charm  the  waking  ear : 
Decay  itself  is  drest  in  glory's  gloom. 
For  every  hillock  is  a  hero's  tomb. 
And  every  breeze  to  fancy's  slumber  brings 
The  mighty  rushing  of  a  spirit's  wings. 


ATHENS.  303 

Oh,  yes !  where  glory  such  as  thine  hath  been, 
Wisdom  and  Sorrow  linger  round  the  scene; 
And  where  the  hues  of  faded  splendor  sleep, 
Age  kneels  to  moralize,  and  youth  to  weep ! 

E'en  now,  methinks,  before  the  eye  of  day. 

The  night  of  ages  rolls  its  mist  away, 

And  the  cold  dead,  the  wise,  and  fair,  and  proud, 

Start  from  the  urn,  and  rend  the  tranquil  shroud. 

Here  the  wild  Muse  hath  seized  her  madd'ning  lyre. 

With  grasp  of  passion,  and  with  glance  of  fire. 

And  called  the  visions  of  her  awful  reign 

From  death  and  gloom,  to  light  and  life  again. 

Hark  !  the  huge  Titan  on  his  frozen  rock 

Scoffs  at  Heaven's  King,  and  braves  the  lightning-shock, 

The  Colchian  sorc'ress  drains  her  last  brief  bliss, 

The  thrilling  rapture  of  a  mother's  kiss. 

And  the  gay  Theban  raises  to  the  skies 

His  hueless  features,  and  his  rayless  eyes. 

There  blue-eyed  Pallas  guides  the  willing  feet 

Of  her  loved  sages  to  her  calm  retreat. 

And  lights  the  radiance  of  her  glitt'ring  torch 

In  the  rich  garden  and  the  quiet  porch : 

Lo !  the  throng'd  arches,  and  the  nodding  trees. 

Where  Truth  and  Wisdom  stray'd  with  Socrates, 

Where  round  sweet  Xenophon  rapt  myriads  hung, 

And  liquid  honey  dropp'd  from  Plato's  tongue ! 

Oh !  thou  wert  glorious  then  !  thy  sway  and  sword 

On  earth  and  sea  were  dreaded  and  adored, 

And  Satraps  knelt,  and  Sovereigns  tribute  paid, 

An.d  prostrate  cities  trembled  and  obeyed : 


304  ATHENS. 

The  grim  Laconian  when  he  saw  thee  sighed, 

And  frown'd  the  venom  of  his  hate  and  pride ; 

And  the  pale  Persian  dismal  vigils  kept, 

If  Rumor  whispered  '  Athens  !'  where  he  slept ; 

And  mighty  Ocean,  for  thy  royal  sail, 

Hush'd  the  loud  wave,  and  still'd  the  stormy  gale ; 

And  to  thy  sons  Olympian  Jove  had  given 

A  brighter  ether,  and  a  purer  heaven. 

Those  sons  of  thine  were  not  a  mingled  host. 

From  various  fathers  born,  from  every  coast. 

And  driven  from  shore  to  shore,  from  toil  to  toil, 

To  shun  a  despot,  or  to  seek  a  spoil; 

Oh,  no  !  they  drew  their  unpolluted  race 

Up  from  the  earth  which  was  their  dwelling-place. 

And  the  warm  blood,  whose  blushing  streams  had  run 

Ceaseless  and  stainless,  down,  from  sire  to  son. 

Went  clear  and  brilliant  through  its  hundred  rills 

Pure  as  thy  breeze,  eternal  as  thy  hills ! 

Alas !  How  soon  that  day  of  splendor  past. 
That  bright,  brief  day,  too  beautiful  to  last ! 
Let  other  lips  tell  o'er  the  oft-told  tale ; — 
How  art  succeeds,  when  spear  and  falchion  fail, 
How  fierce  dissension,  impotent  distrust, 
Caprice  that  made  it  treason  to  be  just. 
And  crime  in  some,  and  listlessness  in  all, 
Shook  the  great  city,  to  her  fate  and  fall, 
Till  gold  at  last  made  plain  the  tyrant's  way. 
And  bent  all  hearts  in  bondage  and  decay ! 
1  loathe  the  task !  let  other  lyres  record 
The  might  and  mercy  of  the  Roman  sword, 


ATHENS.  305 

The  aimless  struggle,  and  the  fruitless  wile, 
The  victor's  vengeance,  and  the  patron's  smile.   ' 
Yet,  in  the  gloom  of  that  long,  cheerless  night. 
There  gleams  one  ray  to  comfort  and  delight ; 
One  spot  of  rapture  courts  the  Muse's  eye. 
In  the  dull  waste  of  shame  and  apathy. 
Here,  where  wild  Fancy  wondrous  fictions  drew. 
And  knelt  to  worship,  till  she  thought  them  true, — 
Here,  in  the  paths  which  beauteous  Error  trod. 
The  great  Apostle  preached  the  Unknown  God  ! 

Silent  the  crowd  were  hush'd ;  for  his  the  eye 
Which  power  controls  not,  sin  cannot  defy ; 
His  the  tall  stature,  and  the  lifted  hand. 
And  the  fix'd  countenance  of  grave  command; 
And  his  the  voice,  which  heard  but  once,  will  sink 
So  deep  into  the  hearts  of  those  that  think. 
That  they  may  live  till  years  and  years  are  gone, 
And  never  lose  one  echo  of  its  tone. 
Yet,  when  the  voice  had  ceased,  a  clamor  rose, 
And  mingled  tumult  rang  from  friends  and  foes ; 
The  threat  was  mutter'd,  and  the  galling  gibe, 
By  each  pale  Sophist  and  his  paltry  tribe ; 
The  haughty  Stoic  pass'd  in  gloomy  state. 
The  heartless  Cynic  scowl'd  his  grov'lling  hate. 
And  the  soft  garden's  rose-encircled  child 
Smiled  unbelief,  and  shuddered  as  he  smiled. — 
Tranquil  he  stood ;  for  he  had  heard, — could  hear, 
Blame  and  reproach  with  an  untroubled  ear ; 
O'er  his  broad  forehead  visibly  were  virought 
The  dark  deep  lines  of  courage  and  of  thought ; 


306  ATHENS. 

And  if  the  color  from  his  cheek  was  fled, 
Its  paleness  spoke  no  passion, — and  no  dread. 
The  meek  endurance,  and  the  steadfast  will, 
The  patient  nerve,  that  suffers,  and  is  still, 
The  humble  faith,  that  bends  to  meet  the  rod, 
And  the  strong  hope,  that  turns  from  man  to  God,- 
AU  these  were  his ;  and  his  firm  heart  was  set, 
And  knew  the  hour  must  come, — but  was  not  yet. 


Again  long  years  of  darkness  and  of  pain, 
The  Moslem  cimeter,  the  Moslem  chain ; 
Where  Phidias  toil'd,  the  turban'd  spoilers  brood. 
And  the  Mosque  glitters  where  the  Temple  stood. 
Alas  !  how  well  the  slaves  their  fetters  wear, 
Proud  in  disgrace,  and  cheerful  in  despair ! 
While  the  glad  music  of  the  boatman's  song 
On  the  still  air  floats  happily  along. 
The  light  caique  goes  bounding  on  its  way 
Through  the  bright  ripples  of  Pirosus'  bay ; 
And  when  the  stars  shine  down,  and  twinkling  feet 
In  the  gay  measure  blithely  part  and  meet, 
The  dark-eyed  maiden  scatters  through  the  grove 
Her  tones  of  fondness,  and  her  looks  of  love  : 
Oh,  sweet  the  lute,  the  dance !  but  bondage  flings 
Grief  on  the  steps,  and  discord  on  the  strings ; 
Yet,  thus  degraded,  sunken  as  thou  art. 
Still  thou  art  dear  to  many  a  boyish  heart ; 
And  many  a  poet,  full  of  fervor,  goes. 
To  read  deep  lessons,  Athens,  in  thy  woes. 


ATHENS.  307 

And  such  was  he,  the  long-lamented  one, 
England's  fair  hope,  sad  Granta's  cherish'd  son, 
Ill-fated  Tweddell! — If  the  flush  of  youth. 
The  light  of  genius,  and  the  glow  of  truth. 
If  all  that  fondness  honors  and  adores, 
If  all  that  grief  remembers  and  deplores, 
Could  bid  the  spoiler  turn  his  scythe  away. 
Or  snatch  one  flower  from  darkness  and  decay. 
Thou  hadst  not  mark'd,  fair  city,  his  decline, 
Nor  rear'd  the  marble  in  thy  silent  shrine — 
The  cold,  ungrieving  marble — to  declare 
How  many  hopes  lie  desolated  there. 
We  will  flot  mourn  for  him !  ere  human  ill 
Could  blight  one  bliss,  or  make  one  feeling  chill, 
In  Learning's  pure  embrace  he  sunk  to  rest, 
Like  a  tired  child  upon  his  mother's  breast: 
Peace  to  his  hallow'd  shade  !  his  ashes  dwell 
In  that  sweet  spot  he  loved  in  life  so  well, 
And  the  sad  Nurse  who  watch'd  his  early  bloom, 
And  this  his  home,  points  proudly  to  his  tomb. 

But  oft,  when  twilight  sleeps  on  earth  and  sea, 
Beautiful  Athens !  we  will  weep  for  thee; 
For  thee,  and  for  thine  offspring ! — will  they  bear 
The  dreary  burthen  of  their  own  despair, 
Till  nature  yields,  and  sense  and  life  depart 
From  the  torn  sinews  and  the  trampled  heart? 
Oh !  by  the  mighty  shades  that  dimly  glide 
Where  Victory  beams  upon  the  turf  or  tide, 
By  those  who  sleep  at  Marathon  in  bliss. 
By  those  who  fell  at  glorious  Salamis, 


308  ATHENS. 

By  every  laurell'd  brow  and  holy  name, 

By  every  thought  of  freedom  and  of  fame, 

By  all  ye  bear,  by  all  that  ye  have  borne, 

The  blow  of  anger,  and  the  glance  of  scorn, 

The  fruitless  labor,  and  the  broken  rest. 

The  bitter  torture,  and  the  bitterer  jest, 

By  your  sweet  infant's  unavailing  cry, 

Your  sister's  blush,  your  mother's  stifled  sigh, 

By  all  the  tears  that  ye  have  wept,  and  weep, — 

Break,  Sons  of  Athens,  break  your  weary  sleep ! 

Yea,  it  is  broken  ! — Hark,  the  sudden  shock 
Rolls  on  from  wave  to  wave,  from  rock  to  rock ; 
Up,  for  the  Cross  and  Freedom !  far  and  near 
Forth  starts  the  sword,  arid  gleams  the  patriot  spear. 
And  bursts  the  echo  of  the  battle  song, 
Cheering  and  swift,  the  banded  hosts  along. 
On,  Sons  of  Athens !  let  your  wrongs  and  woes 
Burnish  the  blades,  and  nerve  the  whistling  bows  ; 
Green  be  the  laurel,  ever  blest  the  meed 
Of  him  that  shines  to-day  in  martial  deed, 
And  sweet  his  sleep  beneath  the  dewy  sod. 
Who  falls  for  fame,  his  country,  and  his  God ! 

The  hoary  sire  has  helm'd  his  lock  of  gray, 
Scorn'd  the  safe  hearth,  and  totter'd  to  the  fray : 
The  beardless  boy  has  left  his  gilt  guitar, 
And  bared  his  arm  for  manhood's  holiest  war. 
E'en  the  weak  girl  has  mail'd  her  bosom  there, 
Clasped  the  rude  helmet  on  her  auburn  hair, 


ATHENS.  309 

Changed  love's  own  smile  for  valor's  fiery  glance, 
Mirth  for  the  field,  the  distaff  for  the  lance. 
Yes,  she  was  beauteous,  that  Athenian  maid, 
When  erst  she  sate  within  her  myrtle  shade, 
Without  a  passion,  and  without  a  thought, 
Save  those  which  innocence  and  childhood  wrought, 
Delicious  hopes,  and  dreams  of  life  and  love. 
Young  flowers  below,  and  cloudless  skies  above. 
But  oh,  how  fair,  how  more  than  doubly  fair. 
Thus  with  the  laurel  twined  about  her  hair, — 
While  at  her  feet  her  country's  chiefs  assemble, 
And  those  soft  tones  amid  the  war-cry  tremble. 
As  some  sweet  lute  creeps  eloquently  in. 
Breaking  the  tempest  of  the  trumpet's  din, — 
Her  corselet  fasten'd  with  a  golden  clasp, — 
Her  falchion  buckled  to  her  tender  grasp, — 
And  quiv'ring  lip,  flush'd  cheek,  and  flashing  eye 
All  breathing  fire,  all  speaking  '  Liberty  !' 

Firm  has  that  struggle  been  !  but  is  there  none 

To  hymn  the  triumph,  when  the  fight  is  won? 

Oh  for  the  harp  which  once — but  through  the  strings. 

Far  o'er  the  sea,  the  dismal  night-wing  sings ; 

Where  is  the  hand  that  swept  it? — cold  and  mute. 

The  lifeless  master,  and  the  voiceless  lute  ! 

The  crowded  hall,  the  murmur,  and  the  gaze, 

The  look  of  envy,  and  the  voice  of  praise, 

And  friendship's  smile,  and  passion's  treasur'd  vow, — 

All  these  are  nothing, — life  is  nothing  now  ! 

But  the  hush'd  triumph,  and  the  garb  of  gloom. 

The  sorrow  deep,  but  mute,  around  the  tomb. 


/  / 

310  ATHENS. 

The  soldier's  silence,  and  the  matron's  tear, — 

These  are  the  trappings  of  the  sable  bier, 

Which  time  corrupts  not,  falsehood  cannot  hide, 

Nor  folly  scorn,  nor  calumny  deride. 

And  '  what  is  writ,  is  writ!' — the  guilt  and  shame, 

All  eyes  have  seen  them,  and  all  lips  may  blame ; 

Where  is  the  record  of  the  wrong  that  stung. 

The  charm  that  tempted,  and  the  grief  that  wrung] 

Let  feeble  hands,  iniquitously  just, 

Eake  up  the  reliques  of  the  sinful  dust. 

Let  ignorance  mock  the  pang  it  camiot  feel. 

And  Malice  brand,  what  Mercy  would  conceal ; 

It  matters  not !  he  died  as  all  would  die ; 

Greece  had  his  earliest  song,  his  latest  sigh ; 

And  o'er  the  shrine,  in  which  that  cold  heart  sleeps, 

Glory  looks  dim,  and  joyous  conquest  weeps. 

The  maids  of  Athens  to  the  spot  shall  bring 

The  freshest  roses  of  the  new-born  spring, 

The  Spartan  boys  their  first-won  wreath  shall  bear, 

To  bloom  round  Byron's  urn,  or  droop  in  sadness  there ! 

Farewell,  sweet  Athens  !  thou  shalt  be  again 
The  sceptred  Queen  of  all  thine  old  domain, 
Again  be  blest  in  all  thy  varied  charms 
Of  loveliness  and  valor,  arts  and  arms. 
Forget  not  then,  that  in  thine  hour  of  dread, 
While  the  weak  battled,  and  the  guiltless  bled, 
Though  Kings  and  Courts  stood  gazing  on  thy  fate, 
The  bad,  to  scoff — the  better,  to  debate. 


ATHENS.  311 

Here,  where  the  soul  of  youth  remembers  yet 
The  smiles  and  tears  which  manhood  must  forget, 
In  a  far  land,  the  honest  and  the  free 
Had  lips  to  pray,  and  hearts  to  feel,  for  thee ! 


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